Spec Ops Mission 98: Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes
by Goblin Cat KC
Summary: Surrounded by the torrid fiction of his fellow Autobots, Jazz uncovers a Decepticon plot hidden amidst their written fantasies. Can the Spec Ops commander turn this plot of high treason into a narrative...of love? OR Jazz is surrounded by a bunch of perverted writers, and wouldn't you know it, one of them is a Decepticon. (Soundwave x Jazz, Prowl x Jazz)
1. Chapter 1

**Spec Ops Mission 98: Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes**

by KC

**Summary**: Surrounded by the torrid fiction of his fellow Autobots, Jazz uncovers a Decepticon plot hidden amidst their written fantasies. Can the Spec Ops commander turn this plot of high treason into a narrative...of love?

**Pairing**: Soundwave/Jazz (plus some Prowl/Jazz)

* * *

_A thin ray of light spilled from the door as it creaked open. On the berth, Fireflight looked up with wide optics, pulling uselessly at the chain on his collar as he cringed against the wall. His whole chassis still ached from the last session. How much more punishment could the young flier take?_

_From the whip hanging in Starscream's hands, the Decepticon clearly had much more in store for Fireflight._

_"Lord Megatron is busy with your friend Silverbolt," Starsceam said, his smile widening as Fireflight trembled. "So I'll take my pleasure and that sweet aft...before I make you part of my Decepticon armada."_

_"I'll never join you!" Fireflight yelled, turning his head. "I'm a proud Autobot! I'll never-"_

_His voice hitched as Starscream caught his face and forced him to look up, grabbing Fireflight's hand and putting it over his Decepticon mark._

_"In a few orns," Starscream murmured, "you'll be begging for this sigil."_

_Fireflight whimpered as Starscream forcefully kissed him, a small squeak escaping as the Decepticon slipped his fingers across the soft cables of his hip joint-_

The screen of his datapad came up to smack Bumblebee's face and he stumbled back, holding his faceplate. Someone put their hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

"Yo, 'Bee," Jazz said, "careful where you're walking, 'bot."

"Sorry," Bumblebee said, backing up as he rubbed where the datapad had hit. "I should've been looking."

A few chuckles answered him. Bumblebee vented in embarrassment under the optics of several of the officers and-Primus help him-Optimus all gathered just outside Prowl's office.

"No worries." Jazz looked down at the datapad, angling his visor trying to get a look at it. "What'cha reading that's got you so-?"

Bumblebee's optics went wide and he flipped off the datapad and hid it behind his back. "Nothing! Nothing important. Just reports."

His mouth quirking, Jazz stood straight, crossing his arms as he looked at Bumblebee. The smaller bot kept moving back as he spoke, waving his free hand.

"You don't have any reports to file," Jazz said, leaning forward and peering at him.

"So I'd better get writing some," Bumblebee said and kept edging back the way he'd came, glancing over his shoulder once. "I gotta get back to work-file this and get on monitor duty-"

Looking more concerned, Red Alert craned his neck to look over Prowl. "'Monitory duty'? You're not scheduled on that for half a quartex-"

"Oh geez," Bumblebee said with a sheepish grin. "I really better check the roster again. I can't believe I forgot."

"Bumblebee..." Jazz said, a warning in his voice.

"Sir yes sir, I'm right on it!" Bumblebee said in a rush, scooting around the corner so fast that he tripped over his own pedes. As he fell out of sight, there was the distinct sound of a transformation and then the thrum of an engine.

Optimus tilted his head. "Well, that wasn't suspicious at all."

Jazz sighed, holding up his hands in exasperation. "Ladies and gentle 'bots, I give you Spec Ops. Great at sneaking by enemies, not so much around their own officers."

Ironhide chuckled. "Leave the poor 'bot alone. We probably just spooked him. I remember being nervous around brass once upon a time."

"I don't believe you were ever less than gruff or conniving," Jazz said, rejoining the impromptu meeting. On his private channels, however, he send a quick message to Mirage and Smokescreen to find Bumblebee and sit on him until he could get there.

"You'll never forgive me for your promotion?" Ironhide smiled ruefully. "I'm hurt, Jazz. I'm really hurt."

Jazz gave him a look. Many vorns ago, Jazz had enjoyed the life of a simple spy. If he stole a few Decepticon cubes of spiked energon for personal use, he could expect a scolding and extra work. If he teamed up with Blaster to get the whole Spec-Ops division over-energized in the loudest after hours party this side of the galaxy, there would be a headache the next orn and a lecture from Ratchet as he repaired their clogged filters. He followed orders, ran his missions, and danced the stress away every night.

But then Ironhide had seen a greater need for Special Operations to become its own unit, and Jazz had been the natural choice. There had been some concern over his disciplinary record, but no matter how he protested, Jazz now enjoyed the commander's duties of all his previous work plus the added responsibility of staff meetings, training his team and organizing missions.

"Your rusty aft," Jazz said. "You will always owe me for that. All this responsibility can't be good for a mech."

"Nonsense," Prowl said. "If I had known promoting you would curb your worst tendencies, I would have done so a long time ago."

"Sure, sure," Jazz said, his grin coming back. After all this time, nothing relieved stress as much as making the Second in Command's life a little more interesting. "Well, sirs, if you all will excuse me, I'm afraid I actually do have reports to file, and I need to skedaddle before Prowl finds out what I left on his desk."

As Jazz took off with the same backward step Bumblebee had used, giving Prowl a jaunty salute, Red Alert put his arm in front of Prowl before the enforcer could take more than a step.

"Let him go," Red Alert said. "I need to cross-reference some things with you, and whatever he left, it's already on your desk."

"Jazz, you are Third in Command," Prowl said, sternly calling after him. "Act like it!"

"I'll see you later!" Jazz said, drowning out Prowl's grumbles as he rounded the corner. A moment later, a communication pinged on his internal com unit.

"Commander?"

"Go ahead, Mirage," Jazz said. A few mechs startled away as he ran past. "Tell me something good."

"I'm at the Tertiary Supply Depot," Mirage continued. "And I have Bumblebee here."

"There we go," Jazz said. "Nice knowing I got at least one mech who can sneak around successfully. You sitting on him like I said?"

"Um, no." Mirage hesitated, sharing what must have been shocked looks with Bumblebee. "I didn't think that was literal."

"Do it," Jazz ordered. "I haven't figured out yet what I'm gonna do to that little brat, and I don't want him spooking and tearing off before I get there."

Another channel opened up, broadcasting static for a moment before Bumblebee spoke up. A faint metallic clink came through, probably the smaller bot's habit of tapping his fingertips when he got nervous and couldn't shoot his stress away.

"Does he have to?" Bumblebee asked. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise, and Mirage might crush me."

"Hey," Mirage snapped. "I'll have you know my frame is refined, lightweight polymer."

"Quit moaning," Jazz said, ignoring the elevator in lieu of the stairs he could take three at a time. "I'm almost to your position. And Mirage, check him out for a datapad. If he's tapping his fingers, that means he ain't got it, and I want it."

Long silence followed, with a thin screech of static that vanished almost as soon as they uttered it. Jazz frowned. Not good. Not only was Mirage not sitting on Bumblebee nor frisking him, but his two operatives were conspiring together.

Jazz slowed, moving silently as he spotted the supply depot. The sliding door was easily as tall as Prime himself and almost as heavy, but luck was with him. Mirage hadn't closed the door after himself, and there was just enough space for Jazz to slip by noiselessly. His mechs weren't at the entrance, and he ghosted through the shelves of armaments, listening for their furtive whispers.

"Get rid of it," Mirage said in a rush. "Just throw it away."

"He knows I had it," Bumblebee argued, punching his datapad's keys audibly too hard. "I can't just hide it."

"Then delete it!"

"I'm trying!"

Jazz paused one shelf away, watching them between stacks of ammunition. Behind his visor, his optics narrowed to slits. Mirage and Bumblebee both hunched over the datapad, with the larger mech throwing furtive glances toward the door while Bumblebee repetitively pushed two buttons over and over. It would've been funny if these weren't two of his most highly trained agents.

"How many do you have on there?" Mirage asked, his voice rising in desperation. "Oh slag, if you have any of the commander's-"

"Lay off! I didn't even download those," Bumblebee said. "But it isn't just deleting them. He'll read the logs, and it takes awhile to upload a good deletion tool. I never thought I'd have to delete my own datapad."

Silent as a cat creeping up on canaries, Jazz stepped out from his cover and leaned against the steel shelves. After taking a few seconds to cross his arms and pedes dramatically, he vented his frustration in a sudden burst that had his mechs jerking straight and Bumblebee hiding the datapad behind his back.

"Which makes me wonder," Jazz said, punctuating each word with harsh, clipped consonants. "What are you trying to hide from me?"

"Commander," Bumblebee squeaked, then coughed in embarrassment and brought his voice back down an octave. "Um, sir, I-"

"Spec Ops," Jazz said over him. "The vanguard of the Autobots, the elite of the anti-Decepticon forces. The very best we have to offer."

Bumblebee's mouth clicked shut, and Mirage winced and turned his head, staring a hole into the floor.

"And inside one breem," Jazz continued, "one bumps into an officer's meeting, draws everyones' attention to something he's trying to hide, runs off like a new recruit, and then can't kill one datapad."

Neither bot spoke up, and Jazz took some measure of comfort that they weren't stupid enough to argue. He pushed off the shelf and walked towards them, giving Mirage a glare for good measure before focusing entirely on Bumblebee.

"It's a wonder the Decepticons haven't already won," Jazz said. "Maybe the only reason I still have mechs to yell at is 'cause Starscream keeps everyone so distracted that your noisy afts don't get shot. Damn, I ought to make him an honorary Spec Ops 'bot, 'cause Primus knows it ain't my mechs winning the war."

"Please, sir," Bumblebee tried, "there was a good reason."

"No," Mirage hissed at him.

"I swear," Jazz said, holding out his hand expectantly. "You and I better have the same idea of 'good'."

Bumblebee looked at him, his optics wide and shimmery under the light like a scolded puppy, and he held the obvious datapad behind his back a moment longer, wrestling with himself. Then Mirage nudged him hard enough to make him sway, and Bumblebee gave him a desperate look, probably begging on their own private intercom for a miraculous way out.

Jazz, Third in Command and most terrifying of all Autobots, almost lost it there, holding in his laugh only by keeping his vents shut tight. But scolding commanders couldn't afford to laugh at their troops, no matter how much they reminded said commander of his own early days. Instead he flashed his visor and lowered his head, focusing tightly on Bumblebee. The datapad was placed in his hand, and Bumblebee pressed one hand against his mouth.

"I haven't read all of them," he pleaded. "Just a couple. I would've told you eventually, I swear-"

Jazz tuned him out, glancing over the datapad and about to bring up the deletion logs. Flustered or not, Bumblebee was still a damn good Spec Ops bot, and he wanted to know what his little soldier had nearly managed to hide.

And then Jazz froze. Tilted his head and brought the screen up a little closer, blinking to make sure his optics weren't seeing things.

"Decepticon Slave-bots in the No-Escape Brothel," he whispered.

Mirage stared at Bumblebee. "You seriously downloaded that one?"

"You got no room to judge," Bumblebee huffed. "Mr. Morphobot Tentacles."

"That didn't include Decepticons," Mirage snapped, then paused. "Wait. Didn't the brothel one have...?"

They both looked at Jazz, then stared at the floor. And their commander took a moment to realize what they meant.

"Wait one sec," Jazz started, waving the datapad like a threat. "You don't seriously mean-"

"We didn't write any of those," Mirage insisted. "I swear!"

Not sure what to think, Jazz looked back at the datapad. _I Fought Shockwave's Drone Dolls of Death. Pleasure Logs of Thrust's Insatiate Trine. Lamborghini Twins Do the Ark._ The titles pulsed in his cortex like some vile organic breathing, and like staring at a disrupted mech, Jazz looked back in fascinated horror as he double tapped the title.

_Fireflight moaned, fighting the coming overload and yet flushed with sickened satisfaction as Starscream whispered obscene praise in his audios._

_"Such a strong willed little flier," the Decepticon hissed, running his glossa across the cables in Fireflight's exposed, vulnerable throat. "To resist me this long and still have the strength to stay conscious."_

_"I won't turn," Fireflight whimpered, driven to the edge of his limits. "You can't make me."_

_"Ah, but I already have," Starscream chuckled, "and as easily as I make you overload. Here, look at your new decoration, my sweet pet...my newest Decepticon!"_

_With a gasp, Fireflight looked past Starscream's laughing face to his own chest plating, his wail of pain matching the commander's glee, for there on his armor lay the purple mark of terror, branding him as property of his sworn enemy._

_"And just so you realize," Starscream said, forcing still another hot kiss from Fireflight's sore lips, "the depths of your imprisonment, your next playmate shall be my greatest triumph-your Third in Command, broken to my will."_

Jazz's head snapped up and locked both of his mechs in a cold, murderous glare.

"Explain. And fast."

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

With two very reluctant mechs dragging their pedes behind him, Jazz entered the meeting room and twirled his chair wrong way around, plopping down and leaning forward on the back of his chair. The command cadre were there already, and Prowl narrowed his eyes without saying anything. Vorns of experience had taught him that Jazz did not follow standard protocol, and sometimes he did things solely because they irritated the other officers. And if they did let on that it annoyed them, Jazz would simply continue in a bid to get demoted.

"You're wondering why I called you all here today," Jazz said, and snapped his fingers.

Behind him, Mirage and Bumblebee each carefully lay a stack of datapads on the table, gently nudging the top pads so they wouldn't fall over. As they backed away, they set their pedes as quietly as possible, almost as silent as their commander as they came to parade rest behind Jazz.

Ironhide glanced at them, then at the Autobots seated around the conference table. The lower ranks' nerves were so raw he almost expected Bumblebee to start sparking.

"So...what's all this?" Ironhide asked, breaking the silence.

Jazz reached out and pushed the two stacks, sending the datapads clattering across the table. Behind him, Mirage and Bumblebee winced.

"Oh, just wait..." Jazz muttered. "Just wait 'till you see what's been spreading around the Ark without us knowing. Go on, take a look. I can't do justice to it myself."

As if Jazz had spilled out scraplets instead, Prime and Red Alert reached across slowly, hesitating as if the datapads might infect them. Giving them a look, Ratchet grabbed the nearest one and started scrolling over the text.

"Some presentation," Ratchet huffed. "Jazz, you didn't even bother to put them all...on the same...page..."

The medic sat straight, staring intently at the screen.

"'Ratchet's Six Proven Ways to Rev Up Your Engine'?" His voice rose with each word until he was glaring at Jazz, and then at Bumblebee when the Spec Ops Commander didn't react.

Beside him, Perceptor slipped a faint sound of static which he cut off with a terse screech.

Ironhide snickered and settled into his chair, transitioning his optics to a near-sighted reading mode. "Well, ain't this cute. 'Red Alert's optics widened even as he lowered his gaze, fist pressed to his mouth.'"

Heads snapped up in shock, then turned swiftly toward Red Alert, whose jaw dropped as he struggled to say something and couldn't. In growing horror, he realized that the older mech meant to keep reading.

"I-Ir-Ironhide-"

"'His vents worked frantically to cool his impossibly heated system, flushing his faceplate as he spread his pedes ever so slowly-'"

"Stop!" Red Alert dropped his datapad and reached across the table as if he might climb across it. "Ironhide, no!"

"Don't get your undercarriage in a bind," Ironhide laughed, tossing the datapad back into the pile. "Primus, it's been vorns since I've seen these. Nice to know some things don't change."

"'Nice'?" Ratchet demanded.

"What things?" Jazz frowned.

"I'm with _Powerglide_?" Red Alert gasped, holding Ironhide's datapad at arm's length. When they all looked at him, he tossed the device back and hid his face in one hand.

"Polyhex Manuals," Ironhide said as he picked up another datapad and scrolled idly through it. "Cheap, tawdry stuff put out for a quick overcharge. Used to trade 'em back and forth when I was just a recruit. Whoa, Lamborghini Twins Do the Ark."

Ironhide doubleclicked and began scanning.

"You're seriously not bothered by this?" Perceptor asked, finally in control of his voice again.

"Why is there a 'this' at all?" Red Alert demanded. "Where the slag did this trash come from? Who's writing it?"

"All very good questions," Jazz said, swiveling his chair. "I brought my-"

"Wow," Ironhide said, scrolling quickly. "Jazz, did you see how many Spec Ops stories you're in? Jazz Caught in Starscream's Den of Depravity, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes..."

"I brought my mechs," Jazz repeated a little louder. "They apparently know where these things are-"

"You're like a superhero master spy in these," Ironhide kept going, tilting the datapad slightly. "'The chains might have been welded, but they couldn't hold him forever-'"

"Ironhide," Prime rumbled in warning.

"Huh, 'Prisoner of Prowl's Brig'-"

"Ironhide!"

Prowl made a strangled sound and studied Bumblebee and Mirage intently. Or rather studied a point on the wall between them.

"Just start talking," Jazz snapped, one hand over his visor.

"Yes sir," Mirage said when Bumblebee hesitated too long. When he glanced over, Bumblebee looked like he would implode if he tried to talk. "Um, half a vorn ago, they just started showing up-"

"Skip the history lesson," Perceptor said. "How are they distributed?"

"Sir, there's a forum on the Ark's sur-net, in the basic code," Mirage said. "The stories are posted there, and then anyone can download whatever they want."

"How many stories are there?" Red Alert asked, still not meeting anyone's optics.

"I...don't know, sir," Mirage said. "Hundreds. Maybe thousands."

"Primus," Red Alert muttered.

"Who knows about it?" Perceptor asked. "And who's doing the writing?"

"We-" Mirage stumbled and glanced back at Bumblebee, who was no help. "We seem to be keeping it away from the officers-um, you, sir. Otherwise, everyone knows."

"Oh Primus." Red Alert sank further into his chair, grasping Perceptor's offered hand.

The motion did not go unnoticed. Mirage and Bumblebee both caught the quick comforting and their glances lingered a klik too long. Both wilted under Prowl's glare.

"Are you contributing to these forums?" he demanded.

"I...did write a couple of stories," Mirage admitted.

"Which ones?" Ironhide asked, not looking up from the datapad.

"For the love of Primus," Ratchet groaned.

"C'mon, kid," Ironhide laughed. "'Fess up."

Mirage glanced at Bumblebee again, but the smaller bot only gave him an innocent look that was no help. Apparently only Mirage had produced any stories, and he was on his own. Squirming as everyone waited, he vented and glanced sideways.

"Turbofoxes Ripped My Finish," he mumbled.

"Heh, overblown adventure stuff," Ironhide nodded, and gave Mirage a knowing look. "And what else?"

"Please, sir," Mirage said, strangling on his embarrassment. "Don't make me..."

"Was that the title?" Ironhide grinned, gleeful at everyone quailing around him. "Or do I gotta get mean?"

"Fireflight in the Morphobot's Tentacles," Mirage said, his optics clamped shut so he didn't have to see their faces. "And Ironhide, Defender of Optimus Prime's Innocence."

The titles hung in the air, impossible to move beyond. Jazz couldn't help looking up, one hand covering his face even as he peered between his fingers at their leader. This meeting had been a mistake. Why had he brought these two? Why did he have to be the one who found out about it? Why was he a damn officer in the first place?

Ironhide almost doubled over as he cackled. "Now that is loyalty you just can't buy. You have the love of your army, Prime."

Optimus vented a whole cycle, regarding his mortified officers and the two mechs who were about to dig a hole in the floor and crawl in after. Red Alert was going to pass out if he didn't stop venting so heavily. Even Jazz, who he could usually count on to handle such unusual circumstances, looked like he was about to draw a knife and slit poor Mirage's cables. Which probably wouldn't kill him since Ratchet was right there, but not something Optimus wanted to see.

"Regardless of how normal this apparently is," Optimus said, and now even Red Alert managed to lift his optics in hope that the Prime shared his embarrassment. "It isn't fair to the mechs who don't want to be the center of someone's written fantasy. I'm assuming no one asks permission from their subjects, Mirage. Are you in any of these?"

Mirage tilted his head. "I admit, I have been a little curious as to which ones I'm in."

"You'll have to ask Cliffjumper," Bumblebee finally managed to say, wincing when Mirage seized up. "I think he's got all the ones where you show up."

"What?" Mirage hissed, glaring at him. "Are you serious?"

"And that's what I'm worried about," Optimus said. "Jazz, I'm going to need a full investigation on this."

"You got it," Jazz muttered.

"And no dead 'bots."

"...they won't be dead, sir."

Optimus thought better of arguing that.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

The inner workings of the Ark were deep, filled with cavernous warehousing, narrow corridors between various supply depots and engineering sectors. Most mechs needed to download the ship's mapping hud before they would set foot in some of the deeper levels, although that had less to do with their embarrassment at getting lost and more because of the rumor of a ghostly Decepticon wandering through the dangling cables and cramped walkways, howling in phantom pain as it searched for tender young Autobots.

In fact, the only thing that could prompt any mech down here was an angry Spec Ops commander already thinking about stripping his mechs down for spare parts. Mirage and Bumblebee followed several steps behind him, optics and sensors on highest sensitivity for the first hint of Jazz's displeasure or a ghostly moan. Neither would admit it, but the ghost would have been more welcome.

"Slingshot swears he saw it down here," Bumblebee said.

"That's a ridiculous rumor," Mirage whispered. "While he was boasting, did he also fight it and tell it to slag off the Ark?"

"Maybe," Bumblebee said, looking over his shoulder. "If you aren't scared, how come you're all hunched up against me, huh?"

"You can't tell," Mirage said with a haughty sniff, "but these ceilings are low."

"Uh-huh," Bumblebee muttered. "You know if you turn invisible, ghosts can still see you, right?"

"There are no ghosts down here," Mirage snapped.

"'Cause a ghost can see your spark, not your frame-"

"No, they can't!" Mirage said, chucking Bumblebee not so lightly on the head.

Ahead of them, Jazz stopped walking and pivoted, his visor's thin sliver of light barely giving him a silhouette in the dark. Mirage grabbed Bumblebee, using him as a shield, while the smaller mech squeaked and pushed back against his larger frame.

"If you two don't clam up," Jazz hissed, "and at least pretend I taught you anything, there's gonna be two real ghosts down here."

"You aren't scared of ghosts?" Bumblebee whispered. "Is it 'cause-"

Was it because of all the mechs that Jazz had killed over the vorns, the sheer torrent of death and destruction innuring their leader to the horrors that lay beyond the grave? They all knew Jazz had done some terrible things during the war. None of them had seen his official file, but they knew, just the same as they knew there were ghosts in the Ark.

With a long suffering vent, Jazz tapped an audio horn once. Did they even remember their damn internal communications system?

_Dumb 'bots,_ Jazz grumbled at them both. _Put you to work in your home base and you lose all your training._

_The Decepticons don't have ghosts on their side,_ Bumblebee said.

_Ain't no ghosts down here, _Jazz sighed, turning and leading them through the supply units again. _I made that rumor up myself._

_I told you so!_ Mirage said, bopping Bumblebee's head again.

_But why'd you make up something like that? _Bumblebee asked.

Jazz shrugged. _Wanted to give myself a place I could drag mechs I didn't want found._

Both Bumblebee and Mirage came to a halt, standing ramrod straight. A moment later Jazz realized they weren't following him and chuckled to himself, waving one hand reassuringly.

_Relax, you two. I kid. I just wanted a spot I could stow some less savory equipment the others wouldn't like, that's all. Prime doesn't need to know every part of my job._

Mirage shared a look with Bumblebee. Both of them knew exactly what Jazz meant. So this was where their commander kept some of their master copies of cortex force downloaders and internal servo disruptors. Some tools still had Decepticon insignias on them, not acceptable for ethical Autobots but too useful to be discarded by more practical bots. Jazz might be scary, but anyone in Special Operations had seen and done things the rest of the Autobots would never know about.

_Come on, come on,_ Jazz said, still walking and turning a corner to vanish in the gloom. _Keep up or you'll get left behind with the spoo~ky Decepticon ghost. Legend has it he especially likes snacking on little grounders._

_Hardy har,_ Bumblebee grumbled. _You could've told us this was your personal storage depot. It was just a matter of time before you stumbled on us anyway._

_Should've known that Scooby Doo routine wouldn't work forever,_ their commander said. _But I didn't expect y'all to turn this into your little erotic clubhouse._

_It's not-_ Mirage started.

Jazz sent a silence command through their array, bringing communication to a halt as he leaned around the corner. A small space had been cleared with a single lamp on the floor and several steel crates positioned in a circle, with empty energon cubes tossed haphazardly around the room. It was clearly an impromptu meeting place, and lounging around the lamp was Sideswipe, a datapad in one hand, a cube in the other. On the floor was Sunstreaker, venting in long regular bursts that made Jazz think it wasn't just energon in those cubes.

To his relief, his bots demonstrated that they could still act like agents, moving to block the other exit with Mirage backing up Bumblebee. Jazz waited a moment to make sure that he hadn't missed anything, and to his surprise a small clatter from the shelves drew his attention to Blaster's cassettes dangling their legs off the side.

_Now that is some strange company to be keeping,_ Jazz wondered. The twins, Eject and Rewind...both of whom seemed quite relaxed with their own smaller energon supply.

"'Jazz held the gun to Soundwave's head'," Sideswipe read, "'but even as the chains fell away, he found he couldn't pull the trigger. Those golden optics-"

"Enough already," Sunstreaker mumbled, turning his gaze away from the lamp. "I don't wanna hear any more of those stupid things."

"You liked 'Fireflight Hooked to a Killer Sharkticon'," Sideswipe argued.

"The adventure ones are cool," Sunstreaker said, and he put his arm over his optics. "The plug 'n play ones are so stupid, though."

"You're still angry about the 'Twins Do the Ark'," Eject said. "You should've known you guys would be popular."

"Well yeah," Sunstreaker said with a grin, one hand running down his own finish. "Sweetest paint job this side of the galaxy. But c'mon...Gears? Seriously, did it have to have Gears in there?"

Taking another sip of doctored energon, Sideswipe scrolled to the next page.

"Hey, check this out," he said. "Wheeljack's Medbay Burst of Lust."

"Is it as bad as 'Engineering Overloads'?" Rewind asked. "If it is, don't bother."

"Yeah," Eject snickered. "Rewind only reads the best Wheeljack ones."

"I do not-"

"'Oh, Ratchet'," Sideswipe interrupted, reading over Rewind's protest with theatrical flair. "'Wheeljack moaned in more than pain as he lay on the medical berth, his outer plating obscenely pulled open and his inner processes revealed, touched by the cool air. 'Please don't,' he cried, jerking futilely on the restraints lashing him down.

"'Ratchet loomed over him, one finger tracing the prone engineer's soft cables, caressing the smooth shell of his spark case. Then his hand turned cruel as he twisted one sensitive screw, drawing a cry from the helpless mech. 'No mercy,' Ratchet said, brushing Wheeljack's faceplate gently and then seizing him when he tried to look away. 'And you, of all 'bots, should appreciate the modifications I'm about to give you.'"

Sideswipe looked up at Rewind, who was about to lean completely off the shelf. "Should I keep going?" he asked with a grin, chuckling when Rewind nodded vigorously.

Before Rewind could say anything, Jazz lifted his head and stepped to the very edge of the dim light. On the other side of the room, Bumblebee and Mirage appeared to surround their prey.

"By all means, keep going," Jazz said with a smile that didn't reach his visor. "How deep you planning on digging your own grave?"

All of them froze. None of them tried to run. The only one Jazz had expected any trouble from merely reached over and grabbed the rest of the energon, disposing of it in one swift go.

"Warned ya this would happen," Sunstreaker grumbled, his engine rumbling with the sudden influx of minerals and coolant.

"Quit getting rid of the evidence," Jazz snapped.

"You're just pissed I'm not leaving it for you," Sunstreaker said, settling back again and already beginning to slur his words. "But I ain't going to the brig sober."

There were serious drawbacks, Jazz thought once again, to being a damn officer.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

Ironhide snickered as the line of embarrassed mechs marched in, but with Optimus presenting himself with utmost formality, he kept his officer face on. The growing lineup of mechs didn't need any more humiliation piled on anyway. That the twins were involved was no surprise, but the cassetibots on Blaster's shoulders looked like they wanted to climb into his recharge case and never come out again. From Jazz's demeanor, he supposed they were lucky not to be wearing stasis cuffs. At least Jazz had shown some mercy on his own bots and let Mirage and Bumblebee flank him, present to answer questions but not among the official row of the condemned.

"The usual suspects," Prowl said, nodding at the twins. "Not unexpected. But Blaster...I'm surprised."

"Sir," Blaster said, one hand on his waist, the other rubbing slightly at his audio horn. "Is what we did really worth all this? It was just a few mechs having a bit of fun."

"Some mechs," Ironhide said, "got more delicate sensibilities, kid. I mean, it takes quite a constitution to shrug off 'Virgin Alert to Passion'."

Sunk low in his seat, glaring sideways at Ironhide, Red Alert revved in warning. "Or 'Tanning an Ironhide'."

Prime's bodyguard blinked and his smile faded slightly. "Wait, what?"

Realizing what was about to happen, Perceptor reached over and grabbed Red Alert's arm, but he couldn't talk fast enough to stop him.

"Ironhide knew he could have fought off Shockwave's hold," Red Alert recited, facing the older mech with what should have been dead calm save for his overly wide optics and pursed lips, "but something held him still. What strange emotion made his spark flicker in hesitation? The single golden optic stared deep into him, frozen in likewise confusion. And then Shockwave's grip hardened like tempered polytitanex, dragging a scream of submission-"

"All right already!" Ironhide snapped, raising a hand in defeat. "I give, I give."

Aghast but quick to distract the other bot, Perceptor leaned close to Red Alert. "How much did you memorize?"

"Enough," Red Alert said, still glaring at Ironhide. "Didn't even get to the good part."

"This is what concerns us about 'your bit of fun'," Prowl said to Blaster, but focusing on Red Alert and Ironhide until he was sure neither of them would start up again. Even Optimus had leaned back in surprise at his security bot's outburst. "It's all too dangerous to upset mechs who have been upgraded with military armaments."

"I think I get what you mean," Blaster said a little sheepishly. "But the cat's outta the bag, man. The whole Ark's doing it now."

"The whole Ark?" Optimus echoed, leaning hard on the table. Primus, what kind of leader was he? He wasn't running an army. He was running an erotic book publishers and fantasy love-in. Did the Senate ever have to deal with this?

"Well, most of 'em," Blaster said with a shrug. "You can't tell who's writing what 'cause it's all under fake names, but there's hundreds of downloads every hour. Four or five uploads, too."

"Out of curiosity," Ironhide started, "can you see what the titles-?"

Everyone seated faced him as one. "No."

"Geez," Ironhide grumbled. "Fine, lemme know when the meeting's over. I'm going to sleep."

Red Alert slumped in his chair with a low vent. "Thank Primus."

"So Blaster...you're saying that the proverbial barrel is leaking and there's no way to stop the spill," Prowl said, steering the conversation again.

This time it was Rewind who nodded, prompted by his carrier's nudge. "Ah, yes sir. It's almost impossible to keep track of it all. Though there is a primary posting forum, there was an argument about whether it was acceptable to write using Decepticon characters, and now smaller forums have begun splintering off."

"So nice of them to worry about the ethics," Red Alert growled, "of how they write unwilling mechs."

Blaster vented nervously. "Um, yeah, but what can you do?"

"Trace every single post," Prowl replied, turning his attention from the meeting to his datapad and typing out what was very clearly a plan of action. "Compare writing styles and form a statistical archive of the most prolific writers. Contrast that against the duty schedule to find those with leisure time and those with enough shirk time on the job to produce this fiction."

"And then break their fingers off," Jazz murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Everyone's gaze flicked to Jazz, then back to each other, all of them trying to assess how serious he was. Mirage and Bumblebee were no help, staring straight ahead and pretending to hear nothing. To judge from their sudden perfect obedience, if their commander broke the hands of half the mechs in the Ark, they would probably be at his side offering to take over when he grew tired.

Although usually smart enough to keep his mouth shut when in trouble, Sideswipe scanned every mech's look and found himself unable to control his indignation.

"Okay, come on," he said, ignoring Blaster's panicked headshake and the cassetibots frantically waving their hands at him to stop. "I mean, yeah, okay, I get that it's weird and all, but this isn't that bad. This isn't insubordination or even disobeying direct orders."

Prowl paused, surprised that all the time Sideswipe had spent in the brig had hammered home if not proper behavior then at least the technical terms for his disciplinary reviews.

"We're stuck here in the middle of a fragging war," Sideswipe continued, and as he spoke, his voice began to tremble. "We can't go home. The enemy is like right there and we can't get hardly any rest-I mean Ratchet had to put my arm back together last week and, well. We can't get energon spiked with nitro or kerosene or anything else good, and we can't go racing and blowing things up, and it's hard enough to get a hook up for a little interfacing when things are so slagged, y'know? I mean, it's just..."

He shrugged, unable to say what he meant. Finally he had to settle for words that came as close as he ever could.

"Everything's just slagged."

No one spoke. Unsure of what to say, one by one their gaze slid from Sideswipe to Optimus, who sat with his hands steepled, in deep thought. Jazz finally looked up from his seat, sitting in his own miasma of annoyance and not sure how to fight it off because he couldn't quite tell where it was coming from.

"A good way of putting it," Optimus said with a long, sad vent.

Sideswipe and Blaster both relaxed. At least the Prime wasn't going to scold them. Maybe the officers would, but death by lecture had been avoided.

"We can't force mechs to stop thinking things we don't like," Optimus said. "We'd be no better than Decepticons then. At the same time, there are mechs who rightfully object to being used like this."

"We're not using anyone," Sideswipe insisted, raising his fists in frustration.

Blaster put his hand on Sideswipe's shoulder, quieting him with a shake of his head. The rowdier bot hadn't seen the Prime like this before, in calm deliberation, and as Sideswipe looked around at the officers, he realized they were all waiting for the Prime to decide.

"We can't stop them," Optimus said finally, as if in resignation.

Jazz smacked his fist on the table, startling everyone but Prime and Prowl, but he didn't argue.

"At the same time," Optimus said, "the ones crafting these stories need to show greater discretion. This can't become a distraction or a tool to harass others."

Red Alert gave a significant look to Ironhide, who noticed it and dipped his head in a grudging nod.

"Any of these Polyhex Manuals will be confiscated if we find them, and disposed of. They are not to be read or shared except in private. And...in the name of Primus, don't let me see anything else about this." He stood up, venting in frustration.

"So we just push it back underground," Jazz said, looking at nothing and no one. "And pretend they ain't treating us like their personal pleasure bots."

Optimus paused, then nodded once. "There's nothing else we can do."

Lightning quick, Jazz stood up and walked out of the room. Mirage and Bumblebee hesitated, not sure what to do, and Prowl half stood.

"No no," Ironhide said, coming to his pedes and going after Jazz. "Guys, you watch after Prime, okay? I'll deal with him."

"Are you certain?" Prowl asked. "He can be dangerous when he's like this."

"He's just pissed," Ironhide said, pausing at the door. "Don't worry, I can take it when he vents. But, uh, Mirage, how about you call Smokescreen and come after me? Just to hold him back maybe."

"Um, sir, I really don't..." Mirage trailed off as Ironhide disappeared. "Oh, slag."

Halfway down the corridor, Ironhide caught up with the fuming bot and fell into step, craning his neck to see Jazz's face. What he saw wasn't promising.

"Wait. Wait!" Ironhide started, easily keeping up with Jazz's shorter steps. "Look, is it really that bad-"

He startled back when Jazz suddenly turned on one pede and advanced on him. Not that Ironhide couldn't go a few rounds with Jazz, but the Spec Ops commander could project a much larger presence than his actual height, and right now he was pushing up on his pedes to almost reach Ironhide's shoulder.

"You pile of rust," Jazz snarled, his anger smoldering hot enough to melt the face off a raw recruit. "Maybe you're fine with being their toy, but I ain't. I find any of that slag lying around, I'll strip the armor off the mech who had it."

The few mechs in the corridor stopped and slowly backed away, as quiet as steel pedes could be on steel floors. Primus help the mech who attracted Jazz's attention. Few mechs faced him so fearlessly, and Ironhide had armor three times as thick as anyone's.

"Jazz Peeled Off My Amor," Ironhide mused. "Would that be adventure or-?"

"A promise," Jazz growled.

"Okay, now look," Ironhide said, drawing himself up to his full height. "I know it's uncomfortable, but you can't force mechs to be pure of cortex. You have to just make your peace with it and ignore it."

Jazz paused, staring and Ironhide and venting heavily. The older mech knew that look. Their third in command had worn that look the same day that Ironhide nominated him to that position and Optimus had accepted. Most mechs wanted to work up the chain as high as they could, but Jazz had actively resisted to the point where the floor still showed the scuff marks where Ironhide had dragged the smaller mech to the commission ceremony.

Probably because this same intense paranoia made for a great officer with a frame full of stress.

"You're getting soft," Jazz said lowly.

The growing crowd around them began to murmur when they heard such open aggression, but both officers glared at them and sent them scattering, hiding around corners with their arrays fully open to catch any word. Only Mirage and Smokescreen were left, suddenly revealed by the dispersed crowd, slowly backing up lest Jazz notice behind himself.

Ironhide frowned. "Now hang on, you little fragger-"

"'Ignore it'?" Jazz said over him. "This can't do nothing but come back to bite us in the aft. There's antagonism among the officers, there's spots in the Ark's code where mechs are hiding information and anyone trying to pass info can just stash it in a datapad and swear it was a-"

"Jazz," Ironhide said firmly. "What's really bothering you about this?"

Jazz's mouth snapped shut.

"'Cause all of that's normal," Ironhide said. "Ain't nothing changed. But this is eating you up more than anything I've seen outta you in awhile, and that's different."

Crossing his arms, Jazz refused to look at him, and when Ironhide went so far as to put a hand on Jazz's shoulder, the smaller mech tapped his wrist in annoyance.

Recognizing it as a signal to call him and give him an excuse to leave, Mirage and Smokescreen inwardly cringed that he'd spotted them. Mirage sent the empty datapacket he kept ready, sounding a soft alert on Jazz's external comm.

"Well, look at that," Jazz said, turning so that Ironhide's hand fell away. "I'm urgently wanted somewhere else. And somewhere else sounds like a fine place to be right now."

"Jazz..." Ironhide vented, giving Mirage a dirty look.

"Later," Jazz said with a wave. He walked between his mechs and grabbed each of them at the waist, forcing them to walk backward a few steps before they turned and flanked him. "Spec Ops: where we don't ignore something even if we want to."

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

In retrospect, Jazz sometimes wished he was wrong.

The firefight had been quick but brutal, a battle over an oil pipeline through the middle of the United States, with Decepticons vanishing before the Autobots arrived, and then popping up from the very same ravines and plateaus that Prowl had earmarked as good cover. Well, never let it be said that Prowl was wrong. It was very good cover indeed. A shame it had worked entirely for the Decepticons.

Jazz's only real comfort was that he was the only one taken, pinpointed with a powerful electromagnetic pulse that had him waking up over some mech's shoulder. Waking up in an empty steel room, his head still throbbing, he was grateful that at least there wasn't another Autobot lying dead in front of him.

Heavy chain wrapped around his pedes, locking him on his knees, and the same chain bound his wrists and kept his arms wrenched behind his back. It wasn't pleasant but it wasn't the worst predicament he'd ever been in. He'd been caught a handful of times before and every time he managed to escape.

Of course, he hadn't been kneeling in front of Soundwave specifically, but there was a first time for everything.

What truly upset him, however, was not how Soundwave had caught him in front of all of his friends and subordinates. Rather, Jazz felt a mountain of disgust at the datapads piled on the consoles and scattered around the floor, with painfully familiar titles on each one.

"I should've known," Jazz muttered, gazing around the room. "You were writing them, too."

"Affirmative," Soundwave said, checking the chains one more time. "Autobot stories inferior. Soundwave's, superior."

Jazz's sensors tingled to have the larger Decepticon so close. He'd seen Soundwave destroy mechs on the battlefield, and to have his enemy holding his chains, venting air across Jazz's cheek, made the saboteur hyper-aware of how much danger he was in. He jerked reflexively on the chains, tensing as Soundwave's hands swept over his arms, ghosting across his bonds once more.

"Superior trash," Jazz said. "Why'd you do it? To get into the Ark's database?"

Soundwave nodded once. "One infected datapad among many, not easy to discover. Amidst hundreds of uploads and downloads, easier to hide."

"Knew it," Jazz growled. "I knew that filth was gonna bite us in the aft!"

Soundwave chuckled, a sound unnerving in how hollow it was, how lacking in tone and pitch. There was a flare of heat behind Jazz, almost uncomfortable, and he turned away from the Decepticon.

"Torture?" he asked. "Already? You ain't even asked any questions yet."

"Not torture," Soundwave assured him. "Rendering Autobot's bonds permanent."

"What?" Jazz pulled again and found the chains a little tighter and stiffer. With widened optics, he skipped a vent as he realized what had happened. Soundwave had melted the locks and welded his chains, intending to keep him on his knees for...how long?

"I...think you been reading too many of your own stories," Jazz muttered.

"Query," Soundwave said, ignoring Jazz's comment and leaning in close. "What lies beneath your visor? Multiple stories fixate on possible answers."

Without a sound, the Decepticon reached up and touched the blue visor.

Locks snapped in place, sending a tiny vibration up through Soundwave's fingertips. Jazz grinned, and it was impossible to tell if he was staring past Soundwave or straight at him.

"Come on," Jazz chuckled, "you didn't think it'd be that easy, did you?"

"Visor, only thin polycarbon," Soundwave said. "Easily breakable."

"Aw, you really wanna break the shiny robot so quickly?" Jazz asked.

He had little mobility left, locked in place by those chains-and were they really welded back there? He eased his fingers along the chain and hissed. Yup, still hot, too-but chains or no chains, he was mobile enough to just so casually tilt his head away from Soundwave.

"We haven't even gotten through the traditional interrogation posturing," Jazz said. "Y'know, 'you'll never get away with this, you evil fiend' and 'despair, Autobot, for now you shall know the true might of the Decepticons'!"

Soundwave said nothing for several seconds.

"Soundwave, not Starscream."

"Now see," Jazz chuckled, "that's something we should talk about. All our files say you don't have a sense of humor, but clearly you must. You listen to Starscream all day. You gotta have a better sense of humor than me, although that's a pretty tall order."

The Decepticon revealed nothing. Soundwave had to have some kind of facial expression, didn't he? But the visor and the faceplate masked everything. Was Soundwave peering at him in curiosity, or was he glaring in anger? In a way, Jazz preferred dealing with Starscream. At least his emotions were obvious, if screamed in one's audio horn.

"Jazz's visor," Soundwave said, prodding at one side. "Has physical locks, or an interface port?"

"You got a real one track mind," Jazz grumbled, turning his head again with a disdainful swish. "All this yummy tactical information stored in my cortex ripe for the picking, and you're stuck on my visor."

"Assertion, incautious interfacing with Autobot specializing in subterfuge not likely to end well."

While he spoke, Soundwave continued to examine the visor, ultimately spotting a tiny interface port near Jazz's temple. He touched one fingertip to the slot, grabbing his prisoner by the chin when he tried to shy away again.

"You feeling lucky?" Jazz said in a tone that promised violence. "You don't even know what nasty little surprises I got in this visor."

Jazz made a tiny sound of surprise when he felt something nudging into the slot. Since when did Soundwave have digital interface jacks?

"Luck unnecessary. Soundwave, superior."

Jazz jerked out of Soundwave's grasp, but not before he felt a wisp of code slip through the interface into his visor. Blocked from the rest of his systems by his immediate quarantine, it slipped like smoke around his visor's anti-viral subroutines, stalling each attempt at deletion as it coaxed the locks with false permissions.

Few mechs with visors bothered with independent systems for them. With so much space used only for more detailed heads up displays, visors normally held no vital data or even much storage memory. Jazz was unusual in that he had two anti-virus programs, one diagnostic tool and a converter to play earth cartoons, but that left no room for a real packet of malware defense. His active programs resided in various other ports, and with his visor quarantined from the rest of his body, he suddenly had no access to them.

"Why do you have to be such a creepy slag?" Jazz muttered. "Just break the damn thing like anyone else."

"Broken visor would lead to broken optics," Soundwave said. "Outcome, undesired."

"You suddenly afraid?" Jazz growled. "You too scared to try to hack my cortex, so you're just gonna bust open my visor? You're supposed to be the best in Megatron's gang of thugs."

The visor's fasteners clicked as they unlocked. Jazz sent command after command, but he was shut out of his own controls. Nothing but the locks were affected, but even as he undid the quarantine, the anti-virus routines trickled into his visor, slow to kill Soundwave's program and repair the damage.

"Force download..." Soundwave hesitated. "Not of immediate importance."

Jazz frowned. Not good. Interrogations had a set routine to them. Break the routine and they were in unknown territory, not where a chained Autobot wanted to be. If secret plans and codes weren't what Soundwave wanted, then what did Jazz have to steal?

"What do you-"

"Release catch is here?" Soundwave lay his hand on Jazz's helm, running his thumb along the rim of his visor.

"Whoa!" Jazz leaned away too fast, losing his balance and landing on his side. "Bad touch!"

He squirmed along the floor, knowing it was useless but trying to shy away, crying out in frustration as Soundwave cupped a hand beside his face.

Soundwave paused, narrowing his optics not in anger but in confusion. "Jazz...in pain?"

"No, I don't want you taking it off!" Jazz jerked hard, managing to roll onto his other side. It was a small victory, getting away from Soundwave's hand. "You don't take off your visor! Leave me mine!"

Long silence followed. Jazz, who'd curled up as much as his chains would allow, felt Soundwave's presence lift away. Did the Decepticon mean to hurt him? With shuddery vents, Jazz chanced looking up, and found Soundwave sitting beside him.

"Condition understood," Soundwave said. "Both visors must be removed."

"Wait, no," Jazz started, shaking his head once. "That ain't what I-"

He fell silent as Soundwave reached up, pressing the sides of his visor until the lock released. Soundwave held either side with both hands, then paused. A moment passed. Soundwave didn't move, except to run his fingertips lightly along the top of the visor.

"I begin to understand your nervousness," Soundwave admitted.

"Ain't so easy, huh?" Jazz said. "Ain't so-"

Soundwave drew his visor down and off, holding it in his lap for a moment. He didn't move, venting for a full cycle. Then he opened his optics, staring steadily at Jazz.

Jazz stared back, chuckling once despite himself.

"S'that why you wear a red visor?" he asked. "'Cause it's a uniform? Gotta have red optics?"

Instead of the usual shade of Decepticon red, burning gold optics looked back at him, as intimidating as his visor but warmer, clear and intently focused. They flicked and turned like any other mech's, but Jazz would have sworn that he felt the strength of Soundwave's gaze as it swept over him. The Decepticon didn't try to hide how he studied him, moving from his bound pedes and wrists up past his hood, lingering on the soft cables of his throat...and finally resting on Jazz's own visor.

This time Jazz felt pinned by that gaze, unmoving as Soundwave crept over him again, gently turning up the visor and drawing it away. At the last second, Jazz shut his optics and turned his head, shuddering at the Decepticon's touch.

"Query," Soundwave said softly, "why this fear?"

Ridiculous. Jazz scolded himself, disgusted at how he reacted. He'd withstood broken fingers, torn plating, beatings and ripped cables, even the pain of a forced interface dragging data out of him. But that data had been deliberately corrupted; it had been part of the plan. It wasn't this gentle touching, intimately examining the edges of his armor, touching the vulnerable rims of his optics. This was unpredictable, unplanned. Out of his control.

"Don't make me," Jazz whispered. "I've never looked at anyone like this before."

"Is...Soundwave so inferior?" the other mech asked, a plaintive note coloring his normally empty voice. "That Autobot would prefer standard procedure force download?"

"Hell of an option you're giving me," Jazz said, laughing once again at the sheer insanity of this situation. "Torture or...or whatever this is."

"Plot of Spec-Ops Mission 98, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes," was the immediate answer.

Shock made Jazz look up. A soft vent rewarded him, and Soundwave's optics widening in surprise.

Light, light blue...Jazz's optics gleamed starry bright, nearly perfectly clear and shiny with a faint blue tint. Soundwave bent closer, enthralled with the glow cast between them, cupping Jazz's face in his hands.

"Jazz...superior," Soundwave murmured.

The compliment rolled off of him, lost as Jazz processed what he'd said earlier.

"You're acting one of those out?" Jazz whispered, aghast. "Are you serious?"

Soundwave frowned. "Soundwave not desirable?"

Jazz opened his mouth to answer...then paused. Here he was, chained up, visorless, under one of the most feared mechs of the entire Decepticon army, and yet Soundwave was waiting for his cue. And if Jazz didn't play this right, he could end up force downloaded and then Primus knew what else.

So. He needed to interface with Soundwave.

Suddenly far too hot, he vented several times, keeping Soundwave's gaze. Why was he so calm and cool in the face of torture, but take off his visor and he suddenly couldn't think straight? Soundwave put his hand on Jazz's pelvic joint and the spy's processors scrambled in a way that had nothing to do with fear of shut down.

"Soundwave..." Jazz closed his optics. "I've never done this before."

The Decepticon nodded once. "This outcome one of several predicted scenarios. Soundwave, proceed with all caution."

"Why you gotta make it sound like..." Jazz groaned, twisting his chains and wincing when they dug into his joints. "Like I ain't tied up and you ain't on top of me?"

Soundwave blinked. "Autobot, never read Spec-Ops Mission 98?"

Jazz frowned. "No."

That seemed to throw a monkeywrench into Soundwave's plans.

"Autobot, read _any_ Spec-Ops missions?"

For such a fearsome mech, Soundwave sounded a little lost. He adjusted his grip on Jazz, no longer so certain of himself.

So Soundwave had a thing for those trash stories. Had even written a few. And while he didn't know what was in those stories, Jazz could see Soundwave's consternation clearly. No wonder the Decepticon kept that visor on. His optics gave away everything.

Jazz almost smiled. There was his angle.

"I usually live Spec-Ops missions," Jazz said slowly. "What exactly was in that story?"

Now Soundwave tensed, growing warmer against Jazz as his cycles sped up. Yes, Jazz thought, self-conscious about our fantasy, are we?

"Decepticon..." Soundwave cleared his filters in a quick cough. "Yields...to Autobot persuasion."

"'Persuasion'?" Jazz echoed, a little disbelieving. "Of...?"

"Ethical considerations," Soundwave said slowly, sounding out the words very carefully as if afraid he was admitting too much. "Of political situation."

Jazz narrowed his optics, looking at him sideways as if Soundwave might make more sense. "You saying that Spec-Ops Mission 98, Jazz Sexes the Decepticon Out of Soundwave is less a fantasy and more a...manual?"

Soundwave made a noise between a hard brake and a kink in his voice processor, as if Jazz had said something terribly improper. But he didn't back off, and his golden optics stared at something on the far wall so he didn't have to look at Jazz.

"Autobot...welcome to experiment and find out."

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

Experiment while he couldn't even move? Jazz almost reminded Soundwave that he was locked up. Almost. But maybe Spec-Ops Mission 98 started out like this, and part of the scenario was how Jazz escaped. He hadn't read any of them, but hadn't Ironhide read something out loud about chains being welded? Damn. Should've let the old mech read out just a little bit more.

He needed to think, and fast. Soundwave wrote trashy novels with Jazz the super spy. And had hoped that Jazz would read it. And apparently Jazz had missed out on the manual on how to convert one of the Decepticon's top officers because...

No, that was wasting time. He needed to focus on what was important right now.

Soundwave had him prisoner, Soundwave expected him to somehow free himself, and Soundwave-outwardly Megatron's most faithful soldier-wanted Jazz to convince him to join the Autobots.

The real important question right now was how did Jazz, master spy of Spec Ops Mission 98, react to that?

"You're the one in control here," Jazz said, giving a token pull on the chain between his wrists. "Not exactly fair, y'know?"

"Jazz, too dangerous to allow freedom," Soundwave argued.

"Not what I meant," Jazz said, and he glanced away, swallowing his rising embarrassment. "Your faceplate...you've still got it..."

Soundwave examined his face as if he could read his expression, searching for any trace of deceit, and he forced Jazz to meet his gaze again. This must not have been part of the story, and Soundwave probably removed that faceplate less often than he removed the visor. If his optics gave away so much, then how much more would his mouth reveal?

"Faceplate...never removed before," Soundwave said.

"You're kidding me," Jazz blurted, forgetting to be coy. "How do you refuel?"

"Never removed around others," Soundwave clarified, glancing aside.

But you're dying to take it off, Jazz thought. Millenia of being strong, disciplined, cold even, masking himself completely. Had anyone ever seen his full face? Maybe taking off his visor was the most vulnerability he'd ever allowed himself.

"You can see mine." Jazz turned slightly, trying to see Soundwave's face his chains rattling just enough to remind Soundwave that he couldn't move. "Let me see yours?"

Soundwave didn't move, but after a moment, the lock on his faceplate clicked and the line of steel retracted back into his helm.

Jazz's optics widened slightly. Like any autobot, he had a natural aversion to all things Decepticon, but he wasn't blind. Some mechs were simply shiny and well framed. Soundwave was a cold sparked mech on the battlefield and he'd blackmail his own side without qualm, but damned if he didn't have a face that would make younger sparks flutter.

"It's a shame you're evil," Jazz murmured.

Did that bring them back on script? Soundwave relaxed enough to adjust his grip, gently setting Jazz on the floor.

"Assertion false," Soundwave said. "Decepticons not evil."

"It's right there in your name," Jazz said. "Deception. Con."

"Decepticon designation, metaphoric. Cybertron's Primes, corrupt but professing the best for all mechs. Primes, Autobots, called Megatron's rebellion a lie. Thus, freedom is deception."

"Cute," Jazz said. "But that snazzy wordplay got lost when you went from freedom fighter to would-be dictators."

"Megatron, not a dictator," Soundwave argued, but his optics flinched and the deep golden light dimmed. He even nervously bit one lip, then realized he was doing it and schooled his face to show no expression. "Megatron, best leader for Cybertron and all mechs."

As if to punctuate that, Soundwave braced himself with one hand by Jazz's head, then slid his other hand down his hood, along his abdomen-and then dove into his pelvic joint. Stroking his fingertips along the soft cables there, he tilted his hand just enough to ease between the fluid lines and underneath, stroking a steel plate that would normally never feel touch.

Jazz bent away as far as he could, his hip pressing against Soundwave's knee. He couldn't go further, and he writhed as Soundwave fingered sensitive cables, pressing them gently when they both knew he could tear them apart without effort.

"Autobot, poorly armored," Soundwave said, his hollow voice a whisper. "Vulnerable."

"Flexible," Jazz hissed, jerking as Soundwave gathered a handful of cables and tugged just enough to pull their connectors taut. "Adaptable."

"Easy to interrogate."

"As if," Jazz said, arching his back, turning every fan on full vent. "You ain't even asking questions. Worst interrogation ever."

"Autobot seems to enjoy this interrogation," Soundwave said.

His optics burned brighter, and he leaned close enough that Jazz could see the lenses and miniscule displays probably telling the Decepticon that he was overheating. Freeing his hand from Jazz's cables, Soundwave drew his fingers along the inner rim of the joint, feeling the smooth steel casing and lightly circling a hex connector on one of the cables.

"I ain't giving in, Decepticon," Jazz said, jolted as Soundwave gave that connector a strong tap. "If you're all about freedom, how come you're still fighting?"

"Primes were Autobots, thus Autobots still a threat."

"Optimus ain't-"

Jazz groaned as Soundwave switched to the other side of his pelvis, driving his sensors equally frenzied. His pedes scraped the floor uselessly as his hands scrabbled at the chain, feeling for the welded sections.

"Optimus ain't bad-" Jazz's voice went up in pitch as Soundwave manhandled each cable one by one, and the Decepticon's chuckle made him fight his voice processors back into submission.

"You know we'd open negotiations if you'd just stop shooting," he rushed out before his voice betrayed him again. "If you're after freedom, why's Megatron still fighting?"

The golden optics dimmed again, and Soundwave's nervous lip bite returned. The hand stroking Jazz's cables paused, moving slower when it returned to work.

If he wasn't being molested, Jazz would have smiled. Oh, Soundwave knew. No, more than that. He'd been thinking this to himself, thinking these exact arguments. Soundwave wasn't stupid, just stupidly loyal. No one ever saw him without his visor or mask, and he had no one to air these thoughts to. Jazz just had to make the argument that Soundwave simply couldn't admit.

Did Soundwave even realize he was signalling all of his doubt? His hands were steady, his body as unyielding as ever, but his optics rotated lenses too quickly, struggling to read Jazz as a threat to ease his nervous sensors.

"Optimus ain't like the other Primes," Jazz said. "You know it. He's got the Matrix-"

"Matrix, lost once before," Soundwave demanded. "No guarantee that the next Prime will be good."

"Then you admit Optimus is good?" Jazz asked.

Soundwave stared at him, mouth pressing into a harsh line. Too quickly, he pulled clear of Jazz's pelvis, jolting him with an accidental electric surge on a connector, and he reached up and grabbed one of Jazz's audio horns.

Static feedback overloaded the sensitive equipment for a splitsecond before automatic safeguards cut the reception, but the horn itself was made of sensors over filters, shielded only by the thinnest webwork of polycarbonate. Soundwave tightened his hand over it, compressing the web until it strained not to break.

Likewise tensing up, Jazz held still, one optic squeezed shut in anticipation. He'd suffered crushed audios before, and even slamming his pain receptors closed couldn't cut off the trauma completely.

Seconds passed. When the expected crumpling didn't happen, Jazz chanced looking up. Soundwave's scowl hadn't changed, but his optics-Jazz could have read them like a datapad. There was a battle raging inside Soundwave, and his optics showed his loyalty warring with the sheer fact that he knew Jazz was right.

That was the problem with carrier models, nigh absolute loyalty. Protecting his cassettes was hard coding that urged Soundwave to likewise seek out a stronger mech to follow and obey. Blaster showed the same programming, sheltering his cassettes while likewise treating Optimus as a kind of surrogate carrier. Jazz knew Blaster felt no conflict about following Optimus, but what happened if a carrier mech began to question his loyalties?

Should Jazz push harder? Pretend he liked the brutal handling? Beg for mercy? Soundwave's hand shifted slightly and Jazz whimpered, turning his head to follow.

"Megatron, demands loyalty," Soundwave said finally. "Optimus Prime, asks. Query, reason for Autobot's loyalty."

"You obey Megatron," Jazz whispered, pushing himself up on his knees and shoulders as Soundwave angled his grip. "But we follow Prime."

"Clarify," Soundwave said, pressing his thumb into the soft filter between the webwork, stretching it and threatening to tear it open. "Quickly."

"Prime never hit anyone," Jazz said. He was almost completely arched trying to relieve the pressure on his audio. "Not like Megatron. He's trying to save us from becoming Megatron's slaves. Optimus gives a damn about us. I'd follow him into the Pit if he said so."

Soundwave held his grip a moment, examining Jazz as if he could spot him telling a lie. When Jazz whimpered again, and that whimper was cut off as his thumb prodded the filter just a little more...Soundwave relented, letting go and letting his prisoner sink back to the floor with a relieved flurry of fans.

Jazz took a moment longer than he needed, spinning his fans noisily for the handful of seconds it took to work at the welded chain. He already had a good grip on the flattened bit of steel and, masking his efforts under any loud noise, he prodded it with his fingertips, forcing it to bend ever so slightly. Not the best escape plan ever, but it was all he had.

As his fans slowed, so did his hands. The room was quiet. Instead of asking another question, Soundwave had sat down on the floor beside him, one leg outstretched and the other bent, leaning on his raised knee and staring into the distance. His optics occasionally darted one way or the other, and he mouthed quiet words to himself, not noticing Jazz watching and reading his lips.

Though there wasn't much to read, it confirmed what Jazz thought. Several no's and but's, and a single 'not enough data'.

"It's been a long time since you were 'following' Megatron," Jazz said, "isn't it?"

Soundwave glared sideways at him.

"That flush of rebellion," Jazz continued. "Knowing you were fighting the good fight against the Senate."

He didn't have to describe it. Both of them remembered the fighting, vicious house to house combat between Enforcers and Decepticons, Autobots as a faction torn apart by the Senate's supporters and the 'usurper' Optimus, whole city states destroyed by the old Prime and desperate fighting under the light of radioactive fire. There had been certainty then, born out of political chaos. Both Decepticons and upstart Autobots against the Senate, and then the scrabble for who would rule Cybertron. The acid rain and the squabbling over dwindling energon. The almost constant streak of starships escaping the planet, heading to unknown colonies and leaving the two factions to their war.

"We know what'll happen if Megatron wins," Jazz said. "He grabs Cybertron and never lets go."

Soundwave didn't argue.

"And if Optimus Prime wins?"

Jazz smiled at the thought. "Every mech's equal. And rebuilding Cybertron's probably a whole lot more fun than blowing it up was."

"Then Optimus Prime becomes ruler of Cybertron," Soundwave said, facing Jazz as if he had caught him in a lie. "How is he any different from past Primes? Optimus Prime rules."

"Leads," Jazz corrected him. "All the difference."

Soundwave scoffed. If Jazz hadn't had a sore audio and the ghost of invasive hands in his cables, and if Soundwave hadn't been an evil slag, Jazz would have found the rolling optics amusing. No one with exposed optics ever did that. There were etiquette routines to prevent it, also known as survival routines around officers. For a mech used to wearing a visor, those routines were only nuisances, wastes of drive space. It reeked of a sparkling's habit.

"Optimus Prime, leave if opposed?" Soundwave said. "Primes, always solidify their power."

"I dunno," Jazz said casually. "You mean like when Optimus had all of us leave 'cause the humans said so?"

The nervous lip bite returned, and Soundwave sat back again, watching. Jazz squirmed a little under that look. Visor or no, that staring habit was creepy.

When the kliks passed without anything else spoken, Jazz relaxed as much as he could for lying on his pedes and hands, drawing in a long vent to steel himself for what he was about to do. He'd done worse to escape in the past, and all was fair in war. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned his head a little, lowering his half-lidded optics.

With a tiny sigh for effect, he pushed his shoulders back, arching up so that his hood thrust out, then sank again. Brought his pelvis up, giving a twist to his hips that spread out his knees.

"Soundwave," he asked, almost breathed. "Take them off, please?"

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

His captor froze. The small sounds of his vents, even the faint, normal creaking of joints absolutely stopped. Jazz would've thought that Soundwave had shut down if he hadn't seen those traitorous golden optics widening, taking in every inch of Jazz writhing on the floor.

_Oh, like that, do you?_ Jazz's struggling turned rhythmic, pushing up his hood, then his hips, pulling the chain taut between his wrists just so the rattle-clink could echo around them. And each time, unseen, he bent the welded section a little more, a little more.

"Please," Jazz groaned, straining his axles, letting his engines hum loudly...then slumping back with a deep vent. He closed is optics and bit his lip. "This chain's driving me crazy."

Soundwave watched him as if the rest of the world had disappeared and nothing else existed. His mouth parted, and Jazz had the feeling of a predator quietly creeping up on its prey.

Wincing as if the chains hurt, Jazz gave a sharp snap of the steel and whipped his head to one side, venting hard.

"Jazz," Soundwave whispered, almost inaudible. "Vehicle model...incapable of holding still for long."

_That explained it,_ Jazz thought. _The aft's trying to make me go nuts staying still._

Worse, his playacting would be real soon enough. Vehicles craved movement, roaring down the open road, pulling tight turns, breaking all the rules and slinging themselves through the air to land safely despite the laws of gravity. If he didn't find some way out soon, he'd break something in the trying.

"I can't take it," Jazz said, using that as an excuse to dial up his wriggling. "Please, Soundwave, please?"

Soundwave turned completely on his hands and knees and reached out, holding his hand just inches above Jazz. Hovering, but not touching.

_You can torture mechs 'till they scream,_ Jazz thought, _but can't grab what's offered you on a silver platter?_

He craned his neck, revealing vulnerable cording all smooth and supple, visible in the spaces between his armor. He had more gaps than most, temptingly revealing at all times, and now as he lay still, venting as if he would melt...

"So cruel," Jazz whispered.

Soundwave trembled as he gave into his own desire, stroking his prisoner's cables, fingertips trembling in time with Jazz's engines. His vents were too short, too loud. And the keening whine of his coolant release surprised both of them.

_Gotcha,_ Jazz thought. _Now what do I do with you?_

"I can't..." Jazz said, looking up with what he hoped seemed like wanton abandon. "I can't control myself."

Neither, apparently, could Soundwave, who grew more confident in handling him. He put his hands under Jazz's back and pulled him up into his lap, drawing the smaller mech back against himself. Jazz groaned in relief as he moved, hands tight on the chain so he didn't lose his grip, and with tiny movements he continued to work at the steel.

Their position was the perfect range for a force download, and Jazz first wondered if Soundwave would try to read his thoughts. Trussed up and held like this, Jazz posed little threat. To his relief, Soundwave seemed more interested in exploring his frame than interfacing.

As the Decepticon's hands wandered up beneath the edge of his hood, however, Jazz tensed, unprepared for the sudden rush of sensation. No one had ever had their hands in the places Soundwave was searching, not even Ratchet. The inner plating didn't even feel the wind when he was driving, and having it suddenly touched, lightly stroked up along the sides-

He bucked, throwing his hood forward as he bent his spine enough that his head lay back on Soundwave's shoulder. The feel of the mech's hands only paused for a moment, however, then spread as Jazz's movement lay bare so much more of his inner workings.

"Jazz, very flexible," Soundwave said. "Query, how is battle damage avoided?"

"Jazz, very quick," he said through his clenched jaw, then hissed as Soundwave fingered the edges of his engines. "Oh Primus...Primus..."

"Sensitive as well."

Forcing himself to maintain control, Jazz tried to lower his hood only to have Soundwave grab the rim and hold it, keeping him bent back. Rather than exploit that weakness, however, his other hand glided down to his hip joints where Jazz's thighs were both splayed and tensed to hold his weight.

If he moved, his hood was pushed up further, so Jazz could only bite back his embarrassing cries as Soundwave's hand slipped up into the space under his pelvic rim. With fingers together, he swept the inside plating, drawing a burst of static from Jazz.

"Some interrogation," Jazz groaned. "At least gimme questions so you stop."

Another sweep of those fingers along his center pelvic plating. The noise coming out of Jazz was feral and incomprehensible.

"Query," Soundwave whispered in his audio, "this treatment, Jazz finds pleasurable?"

"I...I..." Jazz had forgotten about the chain, gripping it only as some kind of anchor to ground himself as his engines revved harder.

The rush of sensation demanded more output from his servos, sending a flood of power and electricity to wherever Soundwave touched. He'd never felt such intensity, and he strained at the chains holding him, trembling with effort.

Jazz felt his servos begin to spark, felt innumerable hums of power along his cables. His fluids pounded through him in a heady rush that overwhelmed his audios. In a moment, he'd overload-

-which sent a spark of panic through him. Overload meant system reboot, and system reboot meant being helpless and unaware. Unacceptable.

Survival routines launched in his cortex, shunting off fuel to the engine and rerouting excess energy to his emergency batteries, then to his cortex. The world slowed down for several seconds as his thoughts sped, processing data faster than was safe. Several neural lines burned their insulation as he overclocked.

Somewhere in all that, he realized that he'd snapped the chain.

"Query," Soundwave whispered again. "Jazz, enjoys this?"

Even better. Soundwave hadn't noticed.

Venting in shaky bursts, chuckling weakly, Jazz felt the prickles of sensation die down. Soundwave's hands still made his plating oversensitive, but overload was no longer a threat.

"Not bad," Jazz said, biting his lip as a final current sparked somewhere inside. "But it takes more than that to bring me over."

Silence.

"...Soundwave failed?"

Jazz paused. A Decepticon shouldn't be able to sound so spark-broken at failing to make his prisoner overload. Oh, this probably wasn't part of Spec-Ops Mission 98. This needed salvaging and their conversation needed redirection.

"Don't feel bad," Jazz smiled, laying his head back on Soundwave's shoulder again. "You got technique, but no Decepticon'll ever throw me into overload. Now, if you were an Autobot on the other hand..."

That comment earned him sudden dumping on the floor. He kept the broken pieces of the chain in one hand, grunting as his helm hit the ground. He was going to have a biting headache after all this.

"Soundwave's loyalty, unbreakable." The Decepticon walked away, standing at the door with one hand on the control switch.

"But are you unbreakable?" Jazz asked.

Soundwave didn't move.

"'Cause you're finally seeing it, ain't you?" Jazz said, leaning up on one elbow. "That Megatron ain't in this for Cybertron or even his Decepticons. Megatron is out for no one else but Megatron."

This time Soundwave's head tipped forward and his shoulders dropped. His hand curled into a fist and struck the wall, but without any real force. He didn't argue, but he didn't turn around, either.

Jazz watched him, gauging how far he could push. Everyone knew that Soundwave was the Decepticon's most loyal officer. He might not be second in command, but he was the one mech Megatron trusted at his back. Starscream stole any opportunity to try to usurp command, but Soundwave followed orders even if Megatron looked dead.

"What was it like?" Jazz asked, trying a different angle. "At the beginning, back on Cybertron?"

"Certainty of cause," Soundwave answered. "Senate, corrupt and diseased. Megatron..."

There was a hitch in his vocal processor that took a moment to self-repair.

"Megatron," he tried again, speaking despite his uneven vents, "brave and inspiring. Heroic."

Pause.

"And now?"

Slowly, Soundwave tipped forward, leaning heavily on the door. He put one hand over his face, muffling the low static in his throat.

"Mad," Soundwave whispered. "Power hungry."

Jazz vented out for a moment, then took advantage of Soundwave's turned back and pushed himself up on his knees. One link at a time, he quietly slid the chain out of his axles.

"Then why don't you defect?"

"Impossible!"

Jazz froze in time as Soundwave whipped around, fists clenched. The golden optics blazed as he spoke, his voice mixing with static.

"Carrier models, programmed for loyalty! Once given, impossible to abandon."

Struck by how agitated Soundwave grew, Jazz could begin to see why the mech had caught him and begun this strange kind of confession. Harboring such intense doubts about Megatron was chewing Soundwave up inside, and now the enemy was the only one he could talk to. So this was the real reason for Spec Ops 98, and maybe all the other books, too. He'd tried to write away his fears and instead needed to act them out.

Which meant that Jazz would need to find out all the books he'd written and then read them. A hell of a reward for surviving interrogation.

Later. Right now he had a Decepticon to help defect.

"What happens," Jazz asked, "if the mech you gave that loyalty to...doesn't give it back?"

Soundwave looked away, his fists moving in front of himself as some kind of protection against what Jazz was saying. Jazz wiggled on his knees, doing a mental fist pump. _Yes, got him on ropes, time to put him down._

"Or when the cause changes so much that it isn't the same cause anymore?" Jazz said. "Do you owe loyalty to the dream if it ain't the dream no more?"

"Stop," Soundwave said, choking on static, backing up until he hit the door. "Autobot, silence required."

"If this Megatron ain't the same mech you followed before," Jazz continued, "then what's keeping you here?"

"Loyalty, most basic core programming," Soundwave cried out, pressing his hands against his optics. Sparks crackled behind his finger and, somewhere inside his cortex, Soundwave's own neural processors began to burn with the strain. "Disloyal carrier model, worthless. Soundwave, superior, therefore cannot be disloyal."

"And yet you confessed all this to an Autobot," Jazz said. "Megatron's enemy."

A high pitched wail of static and groaning servos followed, and Soundwave collapsed to one knee. Sparks fired along his joints as he waged internal war against himself. Core programming was everything from Jazz's need to move and Soundwave's loyalty to basic functions of processing energon or sending fuel from one end of his body to the other. To fight against one aspect of programming was as disastrous as fighting the other. They might as well try to tell electricity to flow backwards.

"You've already betrayed him," Jazz said. "'Cause you didn't want me here just to play out your little fantasies-"

"Silence," Soundwave cried, trying to cover his main audios. "Autobot will be silent. Autobot-"

"'Autobot, welcome to experiment and find out'," Jazz reminded him. "You'd already decided to defect. You just needed me to repeat everything you already knew out loud."

Soundwave glitched. Hard. Jazz had seen it happen enough times to Prowl to recognize the signs. His frame jerked and went rigid, then trembled and finally slumped against the wall, with tiny sounds of servos grinding and falling silent. His optics dulled and went out, staring at nothing.

Jazz stood up and went over to him, waving his hand in front of Soundwave's optics. No reaction. Satisfied, he leaned down and wrapped the chain around the Decepticon's wrists. The welding torch still lay where Soundwave had left it, and in a moment, Jazz had him effectively bound.

"Let's see if we can't get a ride home," Jazz muttered, scanning the empty room.

It was heavily lead-lined to prevent signals in or out, but he guessed that Soundwave hadn't brought him somewhere around other Decepticons. Was this one of their outposts? Well, first things first-he retrieved his visor and snapped it back into place, then set about trying to escape.

When the door wouldn't open for him, he knelt down and grabbed the edge of Soundwave's chest plating, pulling it back with a loud screech of tortured steel. The sound made him wince but he didn't stop until he revealed a massive set of wires, processors and chips.

"I really hope you don't wake up for awhile," Jazz muttered, beginning to pull out a couple of cords and stripping their insulation, twisting the ends together. "'Cause this'll hurt a lot if you do."

As much as it hurt when Jazz did the same to his left hand. Patching himself into Soundwave's sytems would have been a lot easier, but no way was he hooking his cortex up to Megatron's communications officer. There was always the chance that all of this had been a trick, and it was safer to simply hijack Soundwave's hardware than isolate and wrestle his software.

"Anyone out there?" he called, broadcasting via Soundwave on the usual channel.

Long minutes passed as he tried to boost the signal without triggering Soundwave's higher functions. Jazz tapped his fingers on the other mech's thigh, looking him over as he waited for Blaster to hear him.

Crumpled up like this, Soundwave looked like a broken doll, and his overly expressive optics looked soft and empty. Jazz knew it was normal for a mech to gaze into the distance after a glitch, but he cupped Soundwave's face in his hand, idly running one thumb under his optics. All those vorns of fighting and Soundwave had kept his visor and faceplate as a shield.

Jazz wondered if he was the first one to see the mech's expressions in all that time.

Thin and full of static, Blaster's voice came through about as well as if they were using a cup and string to talk, but it sounded beautiful to Jazz.

"-Jazz? Jazz, that you?"

He grinned. "Yup, ten four, good buddy. I had a hot load but I'm good to go. Could use a pick up, though."

"Roger that," Blaster said with a laugh. "Tracking you down now. Man, you have no idea how nuts we've been going over here."

"Oh, it's been interesting on this side, too," Jazz said. "When you send my ride, make sure it's got room for two."

"You bringing company?"

Jazz's smile only spread, satisfied as he looked over his prize.

"Oh, you'll never guess who I'm bringing home for dinner."

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

When the door opened, three mechs came in, weapons drawn, securing the room. What they found was Jazz in a corner with Soundwave unconscious on his lap. Their commander turned down Madonna's Ray of Light and smiled up at his Spec Ops bots with a weary grin.

"Took y'all awhile," he said. "Are we a long way from the Ark?"

"You could say that." Mirage exchanged a look with Smokescreen and Bumblebee. "Why is...?"

"Long story," Jazz said, optics closed. "Real long story."

"So that's what he looks like." Smokescreen leaned closer, staring at Soundwave's uncovered face. "Huh. Always thought he'd have red optics."

Done clearing the room, Bumblebee went back to the door and waved at someone out of sight. "It's all clear! One wounded, one prisoner."

"'Bout time," a familiar voice grumbled, and Ratchet edged past him with First Aid at his side. "Who's the prisoner—whoa."

"No no, it's okay," Jazz said quickly, holding his hand out as the medics took a step back. "He's out. He ain't gonna wake back up until you reboot him."

"I trust you," Ratchet nodded, kneeling beside Soundwave and tilting the Decepticon's head to the side, popping one of his smaller panels and examining his analog switches. "But I'll feel better once I see for myself. First Aid, take care of Jazz."

"Yes sir," First Aid said, kneeling beside Jazz. "Tell me what hurts."

"All things considered, it ain't that bad," Jazz said, nodding at his hand. "I had to peel his armor back Same with my hand. He's glitched pretty bad. Other than that...not much to report."

"Maybe not to me, but everyone else is gonna be interested in this guy." First Aid pulled out a diagnostic kit and plugged it into Jazz's hand port, skimming the code flashing across the screen. "Hang on. I wanna make sure he didn't upload anything nasty into you."

"No rush," Jazz sighed. "It's been a hell of an orn."

"I can guess."

Jazz lay still, venting in relief as First Aid finally disengaged all of his pain receptors, and then watching as Ratchet completed a surface scan of Soundwave's systems. After several kliks and a shared look between the two medics, Ratchet nodded once, and the smaller bot went outside without a word.

"Okay," Ratchet said, turning and helping Jazz sit up completely. "We're gonna take you out on First Aid. I'd rather fix you up on the road. What about Soundwave?"

Jazz's smile faded. "Yeah, we're taking him, but don't let him wake up. Not yet."

"You sure you wanna keep him?" Ratchet asked. "He's not gonna be easy to hang onto. Do we really wanna risk bringing him back?"

"Yeah, we do," Jazz nodded. "It's part of that long story, but he's coming with us. If he don't glitch up again, he shouldn't give us any problem."

Ratchet looked skeptical, but he didn't argue. He ordered Jazz's mechs to carry both Soundwave and their commander into First Aid's alt mode, ignoring Jazz's grumble that he didn't need carrying. When eased inside the ambulance, Jazz insisted on sitting up, watching as Soundwave was unceremoniously slid onto the floor, and then Ratchet sat on Soundwave while working on Jazz's hand.

The place Soundwave had stashed him turned out to be little more than an outpost, but Jazz ordered Mirage and Smokescreen to stay and scout it properly. That left him with Bumblebee driving ahead of First Aid, keeping an eye out for any Decepticons. After several kliks, however, Jazz noticed another car behind them, then another.

"Hey, we picking up an entourage?" he asked.

"Just the twins for now," Ratchet said. "In a couple more miles, Hound'll join up with us."

"Not taking any chances with him, huh?"

"Prowl ordered it," Ratchet said, finally satisfied with Jazz's hand and closing the small access panel. "I think we'll have Tracks and Warpath by the time we finally reach the Ark."

Jazz chuckled. "Should'a told Prowl I didn't need a groupies."

"More like making sure you don't slip out of sight," Ratchet said, "and leave him alone with this mess."

Ratchet knocked his knuckles on Soundwave's case. Both of them glanced at his face to make sure he was still out, but Soundwave hadn't twitched. Even his optics had frozen in the middle of changing inner lenses.

"So now that we got some time, dish," Ratchet said. "How'd you take him out?"

Suddenly finding the window fascinating, Jazz stared at the flat desert road behind them for several seconds before he answered.

"I...out-logic'ed him."

Ratchet laughed. "Cute. Like I'd ever believe that."

"Nothing but the truth," Jazz said. "And I just used Soundwave's own arguments. We'll have to check his code out completely, but if he's on the up and up, we may have ourselves our highest level defector."

Ratchet's smile faded into shock. "What?"

"Yup. That's what made him glitch up." Jazz shrugged. "Loyalty programming just couldn't take it."

"Whoa." Ratchet laughed once, disbelieving and faint. "Okay, you can't just lead in like that and not tell me everything."

"Cut me some slack, Jack." Jazz leaned back, helm thunking on First Aid's side, as he shut his optics. "You'll get to read the report anyway and-"

His fingers swept against something small, almost knocking it off the seat. He caught it just in time, then frowned. It was a datapad, and it was still set on the last file it had opened.

_Mirage reclined in the comforting ring of Hound's arms, both brave mechs content to take their ease together after the terrible battle, watching the clouds drift by on azure breezes as the earth's golden orb sank, painting the sky in hues of lavender and fiery scarlet. The sapphire waters lapped at the sandy shore, bringing with the night wind the evening's cool wind and the sound of swans floating in idle repose and gently honking._

"That's it," he growled, tossing the datapad aside and crossing his arms, sinking down in his seat. "I'm going into recharge. Wake me up when we get there."

"Awww..." Ratchet groaned in disappointment, then snapped at his fellow medical bot. "First Aid!"

"Sorry," the ambulance said around them. "I forgot I it was in my compartment before we left."

* * *

By the time they arrived, Jazz was left with random slow downs and overclocks in his cortex, the effect of a light recharge while his chassis compensated for all the bumps in the road. As they came to a stop, Ratchet stepped out of the ambulance first, giving Jazz a hand so he didn't topple out in an undignified heap, and Jazz stretched the cords and wires that had grown crimped during transit.

Five mechs rolled up behind them, joining the seven or eight mechs standing with weapons drawn, all pointing at First Aid's hatch.

"For crying out loud..." the ambulance grumbled. "He's still unconscious. Get your rifles off my aft before someone gets twitchy."

Officially First Aid ranked below Ratchet, and several of the snipers around them had orders from Prowl himself to maintain the highest alert. However, no one disobeyed medical bots, and with some embarrassed coughs and sputters, everyone lowered their barrels toward the ground. From behind them, Optimus came forward, a noticeably grumpy Ironhide in tow.

"Good to see you back," Prime said, looking Jazz over. "When Soundwave made off with you, we feared the worst."

"You're sure he's unconscious?" Ironhide asked, making way as Ratchet pulled out First Aid's stretcher with Soundwave lying limp on top, still in chains. "Did you get all his weaponry?"

"Yes, mom," Ratchet snarked as he passed. "I just rode with the slag right under me. Of course I made sure he was out!"

"I think you offended him," First Aid said to Ironhide as he transformed, running after Ratchet and yelling over his shoulder. "I'll send you a report as soon as we're done!"

"Autobots," Prime said to the rest of the mechs standing guard. "Escort our prisoner along with Ratchet to the brig's medical bay. Red Alert is standing by with further orders."

Jazz looked up at Ironhide and Optimus, assuming that command didn't apply to him, and he walked with the two of them, rotating his shoulder to work out a kink in the line. As they walked through the Ark's wide main corridor, Ironhide gave Jazz a once over, tallying up the dents and scuff marks he'd accumulated.

"Not bad for an interrogation," Ironhide said. "Gotta admit, I knew you'd get outta there, but I thought you'd be a lot worse for wear."

"He wasn't out to torture me," Jazz said, yawning and leaning against the wall as they walked. "He wanted me to convince him to defect."

"First Aid mentioned that," Prime shook his head once. "I wish I could believe it so easily. Soundwave is Megatron's most loyal soldier."

"It's dangerous just having him here," Ironhide added. "He's gonna have to give us some pretty damn good reasons to keep him around instead of putting a round through his spark."

"Well, hold off on that option for a little while, 'kay?" Jazz said. "If Ratchet can get him online without glitching, I'd like to keep talking to him."

"You think he's legit?" Ironhide asked, a little surprised. "Really?"

Jazz nodded. "If Ratchet says he's lying, I'll be the first one to put him down, but...yeah. Yeah, I think this was for real."

"Well," Optimus said, "you'll have time. Prowl's only waiting on your debriefing before he heads down to interrogate Soundwave."

Groaning, Jazz turned and walked backward, staying a few steps ahead of the pair. Before he even began to speak, Ironhide started to smile, knowing exactly what Jazz was thinking.

"Prowl's gonna have to wait," Jazz said, giving a little apologetic nod to Optimus. "I just handed over Soundwave on a silver platter, and I am running on fumes. I need time in the racks, I need energon, and I need to recharge. Then I'm all yours, I promise!"

Optimus chuckled. "I told Prowl you might not be up to a debriefing."

"Really?" Jazz clasped his hands behind his back, dodging between two mechs that hadn't noticed him coming up behind them. "And what'd Prowl say?"

"That normally he'd understand," Optimus said, "but that this was clearly not normal circumstances. He expects you in his office immediately."

"Slaggin' taskmaster," Jazz muttered. He glanced around, spotted Blaster coming down the hall and deftly snagged the datapad out of his hand. "Thank you very much!"

"Whoa, no no no-" Blaster cried, hand out, reaching for it and missing. "Don't look-!"

"Hey, you knew it'd be confiscated!" Jazz snapped, barely glancing at the screen.

-_"I'm scared," Red Alert whispered, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Will it hurt?"_

_Inferno chuckled and leaned close_-

"Can't you stop reading these for five kliks?" Jazz grumbled, backtracking out of the story and into the main forum. A quick search later and he flipped the datapad to Ironhide, who caught it in one hand.

"There ya go," Jazz said. "Spec Ops Mission 98-my report, the short version, courtesy of one messed up Soundwave. Did you know that mech thinks he's a writer? Maybe our commo officer here can tell us what else he's written."

Jazz made his getaway as Optimus and Ironhide both stared at the datapad, with Blaster trying to sneak away. As soon as they cried out in unison "'Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes'?" Blaster was then trapped between the Prime and his bodyguard, suddenly the best bot to question and the best distraction Jazz could've asked for.

Once he'd rounded the corner, Jazz broke into a run. Prowl might be in his office, but when the reluctant third in command didn't show up in the next breem, the second in command would stalk every inch of the Ark for him. Prowl, true to his name, was one of the few mechs clever and tenacious enough to find Jazz when he didn't want to be found.

So he was heading for the one place Prowl wouldn't look, at least not for a full recharge cycle, and there would be a berth and a wash rack he could use. Jazz snuck down into the living quarters, heading along the officer's row. There were no other mechs in sight, but he still looked up and down the corridor before breaking into Prowl's cabin.

"Why do you keep changing the locks?" Jazz said to himself, taking only an extra moment to access the maintenance subroutine and overriding the passcode altogether. "You know I'm gonna get in anyway."

The door slid open, and Jazz took one step in before coming to a halt.

Prowl sat on his berth, a cube of energon beside him, facing Jazz with perfect calm.

"I know," Prowl said. "But it gives me a moment's warning when I hear you whispering to yourself."

Jazz's doorwings drooped and he started to backpedal.

"Spec Ops Commander Jazz," Prowl said, interrupting his flight. "I order you to come in here for your debriefing."

A whimper rose out of the back of Jazz's processor, and with his head hung low, Jazz shut the door behind himself and padded over to the berth, plopping down by Prowl.

"Prowler," Jazz groaned, putting his head in his hands, "you gotta believe me. I ain't got a debriefing in me. I'm gonna fall over any minute now."

"I understand," Prowl said. "You may give me the short version with the highlights, recharge, and then give me the rest of the details afterward."

"Uh huh," Jazz sighed, "sure. Your idea of highlights and my idea of-huh?"

Prowl held out the energon cube, not letting go when Jazz put his hands around it. Jazz only then noticed that his hands were shaking. Prowl had to hold the cube steady for him as he drank, and the sudden rush of energy made Jazz lightheaded. He started to tip to one side, resting gratefully on Prowl's offered shoulder.

"Oh wow," Jazz said, coughing once. "Wow. I'm more tired than I thought."

"So tell me what happened," Prowl said, "and then you can recharge."

Several breems later, Jazz sipped at the cube and relaxed more and more against Prowl, explaining what Soundwave had said, the physical interfacing-he squirmed at talking about that out loud, but Prowl said nothing except to prompt him to take another sip-and finally how he'd made Soundwave glitch.

By the time he reached the part about calling for help, Jazz found himself lying curled up on the berth, floating in an over-energized haze. Prowl leaned over him, saying something about resting and meeting him as soon as he woke up, and Jazz watched him leave, a dark silhouette in the doorway.

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 9**

Much later, after a session in the wash racks and finishing off the last bit of energon left in the cube, Jazz felt up to facing his fellow officers. A few chips in his head were still out of synch, running a little too fast or too slow, but they were only a nanoklik off and would even out by the time he made it to the brig.

Halfway there, he heard Bumblebee's familiar pedes clunking up behind him, and he slowed his steps for the smaller bot.

"Boss!" Bumblebee caught up, leaning forward to see his face. "Where you headed?"

"Down to visit our guest," Jazz told him. "Maybe swing by Red Alert's, see if Megatron's noticed we got his boombox."

Darting in front, Bumblebee walked backwards, ducking to one side when Jazz motioned and avoiding knocking into two mechs.

"Is it true Soundwave defected?" Bumblebee asked. "Ratchet's been down there for ages. He only came up for energon and he said that Soundwave's been glitching ever since he came in."

"He has?" Jazz frowned. That wasn't good. A glitch could a mech into full system crash, and sometimes mechs didn't come back. "Ratchet say anything else?"

"Just that he sounds crazy, like when Red Alert glitched."

Bumblebee looked over his shoulder when they came to the stairs, using the railing to guide himself down, still backwards. Inconvenient, but no Spec Ops bot took the elevators if there were stairs or ramps nearby.

"You don't think that's why he defected, do you?" Bumblebee asked. "'Cause he glitched and blew all his logic circuits?"

Jazz shook his head once. "No, I don't think so. I got to talk to him for a good long while. I won't argue he's all messed up, but I think that's '_cause_ he wanted to defect, not why."

"Huh?" Bumblebee tilted his head. "Then how come he wrote all those Spec Ops books?"

Jazz came to a halt, looking up and down the staircase to make sure they were alone. A stairwell could echo voices for several floors, and this was a conversation he did not want anyone to listen in on.

"All right," he said, leaning in and whispering. "You tell anyone I asked for this and I will have you on perimeter duty for the next hundred vorns, you got that?"

Optics widening, Bumblebee nodded once without a sound.

"I'm serious," Jazz said. "I'm about to ask you something, and if I ever hear anything about it from anyone else, I will send you down to Ratchet for spare parts. And don't think he won't use 'em."

"I promise," Bumblebee said, nodding vigorously.

"Good." Jazz took another look around the stairwell, then switched to their internal com for good measure.

_I need you send Spec Ops Mission 98 to my personal datapad_, he said.

_Ohhh, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes,_ Bumblebee nodded once.

And then his jaw dropped.

"Oh Primus, no way," Bumblebee gasped.

Jazz grabbed his shoulders and shook him once, looking around again in a panic. Still no one around.

"Not a sound!" he snapped. "And 'Bee, you are way too into this if you knew that off the top of your head."

_Sorry_, Bumblebee answered internally. I_t's just that after you came back, all the stuff with you and Soundwave turned red hot. It wasn't that much before—I mean, you and Prowl were always more popular—_

Bumblebee squeaked and backed up straight into the wall. It didn't help. Jazz didn't loom over him, but his visor burned white hot into his cortex. Other bots wondered what Jazz looked like under the visor. The Spec Ops bots all prayed they never found out.

—_but now it's like everyone's pulling up all the old stories with Soundwave and there's a bunch of them in the Spec Ops Mission series. _

Jazz scowled. "And you have all of them?"

Bumblebee shook his head. "No way. None of us touched anything with you in it. Well, except the Decepticon brothel one and I didn't realize it kinda mentioned you_—_uh, but that's not really important," he said in a rush, scrunching down as Jazz came closer. "Blaster! Blaster has all of them!"

"...Blaster, huh?" Jazz said slowly.

"Prime and Prowl are already talking to him," Bumblebee said. "I think they're sorting out which ones Soundwave might've written."

"Huh." Jazz crossed his arms, thinking, then sighed and clapped one hand on Bumblebee's shoulder. "Relax. Listen, send me that story and then get Mirage and anyone else to help figure out which ones Soundwave probably wrote. Send those to me, too."

"Gotcha, boss," Bumblebee said, watching him turn and head down the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"Brig," Jazz said. "I gotta stop a 'Con from glitching before I can ask him anything."

A nasty thought struck Jazz, a hypothetical title that would probably crop up on the hidden forum. Spec Ops Mission whatever: Soundwave, Prisoner of Jazz's Revenge. He grimaced and decided, Prime's order be damned, he was going to delete that whole forum.

* * *

The brig was not a pleasant place. The Ark had several cells, but the Autobots needed them so rarely that most of them had been converted into storage. Only three cells saw actual use. The first one was reserved for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, usually only for overnight bouts so they could clear their hot heads. The second occasionally held various mechs who needed a firm scolding before being assigned punishment duty.

And the third one held the rare prisoner of war. Some of them defected. Most of them only left grayed out and dead.

Jazz hated shooting prisoners, but at the same time it was easier than shooting them on the battlefield where they could kill him in turn. After so long, better a quick bang and then he could overenergize with Blaster and his crew, and watch his bots dance, safe and sound.

"'Bout time you showed up," Ratchet said, not bothering to turn from his console as Jazz came in. "I'm this close to putting a round through his spark just to put him out of his misery."

Frowning, Jazz came up behind him and studied what he recognized as Soundwave's schematics on the screen. All of the Decepticon's processes lay bare, every weak spot and flawed system, the result of Ratchet's intense scan and analysis. From the warning lights around Soundwave's cortex, Jazz guessed at the problem.

"Can't stop glitching?" he asked, turning and leaning against the console, arms crossed.

"I can't figure it," Ratchet snapped, waving one hand uselessly at the screen. "I can bring him out of reboot just fine, but a couple breems into normal functioning, he just starts sparking and repeating himself and then he crashes."

"What's he repeating?"

"Carrier model, programming failure," Ratchet sighed. He leaned back in his chair, one hand over his optics. "I dunno, Jazz. I checked all his programming. Every damn line of code."

"Nothing?"

"Not a Primus damned thing," Ratchet said. He sighed and looked up at Jazz. "I'll be honest. I've seen this before. The war gets to be too much and mechs just start breaking. But I've never seen it in a war build."

"Well," Jazz said, pushing away from the console and heading for the cell. "Let's see if I can't work a little magic. Open 'er up, will ya?"

"You sure? Glitched or not, he's still dangerous."

Jazz leaned on the door and stood on the tips of his pedes, peering through the tiny window.

In the far corner of the cell, Soundwave sat slumped against the wall, legs curled against his chest, helm tipped forward and his optics empty. His chest armor had been peeled away completely, hopefully with his pain servos disengaged, and his inner circuits lay exposed for Ratchet's access. Jazz grimaced. They'd never come so close to holding such a high level prisoner, with all those juicy Decepticon secrets and protocols and plans in his cortex, but there was something pathetic in taking it out of a glitched mech.

The lock clicked, and Jazz went in and closed the door behind himself again. He knelt by Soundwave, spotting the stasis cuffs that had replaced the chains. With a rueful smile, he put his hand on Soundwave's shoulder, then reached for the exposed circuitry on his chest. Jazz wasn't a medical bot, but he'd restarted mechs on the battlefield under fire. He touched, and Soundwave responded.

Golden optics glowed, then blazed brightly. With his joints groaning in protest, Soundwave straightened out, putting his hand up to his eyes and fumbling for his visor before he realized he wasn't wearing it.

"Sorry," Jazz grinned, unrepentant. "Left it behind. Only one bot here's cool enough for a visor."

Soundwave stared at him for a moment, looking down at Jazz's red insignia, then at his own purple mark, or where it would have been if his panel hadn't been removed. The sight of his own inner workings seemed to stymie him so that he tried to cover himself with one hand.

"Soundwave...broken?"

That he was confused after coming out of reboot was not unusual. That the third ranking Decepticon looked at Jazz for some kind of confirmation startled both of them.

"You don't remember anything?" Jazz asked, looking at him askance. "About loyalty and defecting and that damn story of yours?"

Soundwave blinked, silent as he called up the memories. Jazz waited, studying him for the first sign of-

"Carrier model, program failure," Soundwave whispered, sitting rigidly straight. One hand slid against the wall, trying to find something to hold onto as his logic circuits began to spark. "Carrier model, program failure."

"Nope," Jazz said, grabbing Soundwave's helm and forcing him to meet his look. "Carrier model, program normal."

"Carrier model exhibiting extreme disloyalty," Soundwave said, hissing static. "Carrier malfunctioning."

"Carrier model not malfunctioning," Jazz insisted.

"Fatal error. Fatal error. Carrier mode-"

"You stubborn mech," Jazz said over him. "You say you're disloyal? To what?"

"Megatron-"

"Did you swear loyalty to Megatron?" Jazz demanded, leaning so close that their faces were only inches apart. "Dashing, heroic Megatron swearing to save Cybertron?"

"Megatron, object of this carrier's loyalty-"

"Is he?" Jazz said. "Or did you swear loyalty to what he said he wanted?"

Soundwave didn't answer, beginning to arch backward, shrieking digital noise as the glitching began to cycle in a vicious loop through his cortex. Jazz raised his voice, afraid that Soundwave couldn't hear him over his own pain.

"'Cause I think this carrier model is functioning properly," Jazz said. "You swore loyalty when Megatron said he wanted to save Cybertron. When you couldn't believe that anymore, you looked for a way out. Because you're loyal!"

"Keep it up!" From outside, Ratchet yelled over Soundwave's shrieks and the medical alerts sounding at his console. "He's right at the edge, but he's holding steady! Just keep it up!"

"You got stuck between a rock and a hard place," Jazz pressed. "You wanted to save the planet from the Senate and the evil Primes. Megatron was doing that, so you swore loyalty."

Soundwave had stopped struggling, grasping at the wall, seizing up so tightly that his internal frame began to groan and crack under the pressure.

"But then Megatron turned into something as nasty as the Senate he got rid of," Jazz said. "And the new Prime seemed okay. And your programming knew something was wrong."

Soundwave's static went back to a low hiss, but if that was because he was listening or because he'd simply run out of energy, Jazz couldn't tell. He couldn't ask Ratchet for help-if he stopped talking, Soundwave might stop fighting his own cortex.

"Your programming is working fine," Jazz said. "You can't be disloyal 'cause you're loyal to saving Cybertron. You couldn't keep lying to yourself anymore."

Soundwave's optics were already flickering. With a heavy vent, Jazz looked down in defeat. He didn't need Ratchet to tell him the mech was on the edge. Jazz had held Prowl while he slipped into a crash, and he knew what it looked like.

"Programming...stable?"

Jazz's head snapped up. "Yes, your programming's stable! Damn, mech, do you ever use your linking verbs?"

Soundwave's static faded. His vents came in short, sharp bursts. He barely moved, staring at the ceiling, trembling with the effort to somehow hold himself up out of a system crash.

"Carrier model, systems operational?"

"Yes," Jazz said, sliding his hand to Soundwave's arm, leaning over him and grabbing his other hand. "You got your loyalty for Cybertron mixed up with Megatron, that's all, and your programming had to readjust."

Soundwave relaxed enough to slowly relax into the corner again. His arm slipped down and lay on his lap. He sucked in a long, shaky vent.

"Soundwave, loyalty to Megatron false."

Jazz bit his lip. Soundwave was still staring at the ceiling, processing what Jazz had said, what he remembered, and what he knew now. If Jazz pushed, he could lose the gains he'd made, but how nerve-wracking it was to hear Soundwave sounding out his loyalties.

"Soundwave, desire to restore Cybertron. Decepticons, no longer working to that goal. Therefore...Soundwave's goals no longer align with Decepticons."

Waiting for Soundwave to continue, Jazz hesitated for several long seconds. When nothing else came, he eased close enough to hear Soundwave's low vents and the tiny servos in his chest whining with activity.

"Who does Soundwave align with, then?"

A long pause followed as Soundwave considered that. With slow blinks, Soundwave shook his head and faced him.

"...not known yet."

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

Jazz came out of the cell tired, sore and not a little twitchy. He plopped down on the floor next to Ratchet's chair, venting hard, and took the offered energon cube with a nod of thanks.

"You doing okay?" Ratchet asked. "You look beat."

"I just talked a Decepticon down from the edge," Jazz said, sighing after a long drink. "S'worse than watching to see if Prowl's gonna glitch. At least he just kind of slumps over a bit."

"Soundwave's kinda dramatic that way, huh?" Ratchet leaned back in his chair and flipped a few diagrams on his console. "He's doing okay in there. Holding steady."

"Think he'll crash again?" Jazz asked.

"Maybe," Ratchet said. "His logic circuits are still pulling overtime. But I think you did it. If he doesn't crash for the next hour, he should be outta danger."

"Good," Jazz said firmly. "'Cause I don't wanna do that again."

Jazz took another long drink, finishing the cube, and tossed it idly between his hands. He didn't like watching another mech crash. It felt like watching a long death. Worse was when the mech came out of a crash with missing chunks of himself. That Prowl was still Prowl was enough reason to believe in Primus. For crashes as violent as Soundwave suffered, Jazz was amazed he'd come back each time to the same mental spot.

"There's no doubt then," Ratchet said. "Soundwave's really defecting."

Jazz tilted his head. "Yeah."

"That'll make for an interesting report to Optimus," Ratchet said. He glanced down at Jazz, his tone overly casual. "So...how'd you talk him into it?"

Jazz tilted his head just enough to see him from the corner of his optic. "Now I know you ain't insinuating what I think you are."

"Hey, I don't think it was anything trashy," Ratchet defended himself. "That's First Aid. Found out he's one of the worst ones for that slag."

"And you let him live?" Jazz chuckled.

"Couldn't help it," Ratchet vented. "He said he doesn't read anything but fluffy romances and no hard interfacing. Said it helped with the stress of the job."

"And you believed him?" Jazz laughed. "You're getting soft in your old age."

"You know what he gets like," Ratchet grumbled. "It's not like I found out until his slip today. And...well, it's not really so bad. Not once you get over the shock of it, I mean."

A long hiss came from Jazz's filter as it cleared. First Ironhide, now Ratchet. And Red Alert had read enough to bother Ironhide. If things kept up this way, soon the whole officers cadre wouldn't mind the damn stories. Except for Jazz.

The sound of pedes on the steel floor came from the corridor. Jazz half smiled even as he stood up in one fluid movement. One of the few perks of his rank was that there were only a handful of bots he had to stand up for, and only the quietest one of them purposefully scuffed his pedes so that Jazz didn't startle.

"There you are," Jazz said. "Finished running Blaster over the coals?"

Prowl's face remained neutral. "Blaster has been quite useful in narrowing which stories Soundwave might have written. You seem to have featured quite prominently in all of them."

A snort of repressed laughter sort of snuck out of Ratchet, who squashed it with a quick cough of his intake.

"Soundwave was writing stories?"

Jazz crossed his arms and found the far wall suddenly fascinating.

"Quite a few," Prowl said, holding up his datapad. "All of them in the Spec Ops Mission series. Jazz's Raid on the Cloud Seeders' Hanger, Strict Discipline Between Officers, He Wouldn't Surrender, Soft Cables for Decepticon Desire-"

"Okay!" Jazz groaned. "We get it. Soundwave's got a thing for me."

He shot a look at Ratchet, who was no longer hiding his snickering. With an apologetic wave, the medibot sat back down and went back to monitoring Soundwave's processes.

"Not just a thing," Prowl said. "Yes, you feature heavily in them, but all of them involve you offering strong arguments to join the Autobot faction."

"Huh." Jazz pursed his lips, mulling that over. "You think he was working out his issues?"

"I think so," Prowl agreed. He tucked the datapad away again, looking over Ratchet's shoulder. "How is our prisoner doing?"

"Steady, now that Jazz stabilized him," Ratchet said with only the ghost of a smile at Jazz's expense. "He's still on the floor, though. Hasn't moved since."

"After all that flailing, I ain't surprised," Jazz said. "And why me? Why not write about Optimus? He's the one good with speeches."

"Serious?" Ratchet turned in his chair, rolling his optics at him. "You can't figure out why he chose you?"

"Hell, Blaster would make more sense," Jazz said.

Prowl lifted his head slightly, picking his words carefully.

"You're the one who would understand the Decepticons the most," he said, "since you're the one most often observing behind enemy lines. Your unconventional outlook would make you the most likely to listen and offer an argument."

"Nah," Ratchet said with a broad grin. "It's easier than that."

Jazz and Prowl both looked at him.

"He's shiny," Ratchet said with all the confidence of an official diagnosis. "Compact enough to be cute, dangerous enough to take seriously. And shiny. Look at that visor and tell me he ain't."

Heat flooded Jazz's face and throat cables as Prowl actually looked. And tipped his head in appreciation.

"Very true," Prowl said. "Jazz is...shiny."

Jazz cleared his intake with a sharp glare at the both of them. "Okay, you two, we're talking about Soundwave now."

"True," Prowl nodded, conceding the point. "Is Soundwave up to an interrogation? His information grows less viable the longer we wait."

"Mm, can't say," Jazz said. "He's not sure where his loyalties lie right now. I don't think he's gonna go back to Megatron, but now we need to give him a reason to join us."

Ratchet turned and keyed up another window on his console, setting it to play. "You need to watch this before you start asking any questions. It's from Jazz going into the cell to when Soundwave finally stopped glitching. It'll catch you up to speed."

"I'll be up to speed," Prowl said, giving Jazz a look, "when I have the rest of the Third's report."

Rolling his optics, Jazz waved his hand at him. "You'll get it, relax. I just wanted to check on Soundwave before I started downloading the whole mess."

"You knew he'd still be crashing?" Prowl asked.

"Call it a hunch," Jazz half-shruged. "Guess I got a thing for mechs that glitch."

If Prowl's armor could ruffle, it would have. Suddenly Ratchet had sat back down and toggled a few switches back and forth, his head down with one audio up.

"Perhaps I was hasty," Prowl said with narrowing optics, "in letting you give me only the short version. What happened in Soundwave's interrogation chamber clearly affected you more deeply than you let on."

"It ain't like that," Jazz said, frowning as he faced him. "And you know it. I ain't one for being tossed over another mech's shoulder, but that wasn't a normal interrogation-that was Soundwave with more screws loose than if he'd been in a fight."

"And he never interfaced with you?" Prowl said, stepping closer so that they were bumper to bumper. "No crossed wires?"

"No," Jazz snapped. "And you'll see that when you get my download. But he's the biggest catch we've had in vorns and...I've seen what glitching does to a mech."

Jazz's voice dropped in pitch, and he switched to their internal communication relay. It didn't matter that Ratchet was there. He would have done it if they were alone. Something so intimate was only intimately spoken of.

_I hate seeing you glitch_, Jazz said. _And I know what has to happen to bring you to that point. So when it happened to him, it just...I dunno. Struck a chord._

Dipping his head, shying away from looking at Prowl, Jazz took the Second's hand, holding it and worrying at it.

_Crashing looks like it hurts._

After a moment's hesitation, Prowl returned the hold.

"It does," Prowl said abruptly, cutting off his internal relay. It was not something he could talk about casually, no matter how sparkfelt Jazz's feelings were. He squeezed Jazz's hand, trying to offer an apology that way.

"His crash...was very painful, then?"

Jazz nodded once. "I made him crash the first time."

A moment passed. When Ratchet realized that Jazz wasn't going to continue, he picked up, displaying the sequence of Soundwave's crashes from his first time waking up in his cell to when Jazz finally talked him down.

"He ain't the type to come back online better than before," Ratchet said, obliquely referring to Prowl. "He starts where he left off, so he was caught in a loop. His code seems fine, but since I don't know what he started out with, Primus knows if he lost anything."

"Then I'll use a light touch," Prowl said, letting go of Jazz's hand. "But this can't wait. Jazz, if you've been key to his stability, perhaps you should accompany-"

An alert sounded on the brig computer, a low level signal that didn't start up anyone's main battle subroutine. Ratchet tapped the button that brought up the Ark's emergency communication system and homed in on the source, the main entrance.

"Bumblebee calling Jazz, Bumblebee calling Jazz," came the bot's voice. "Or any officer if you're there."

Jazz leaned over Ratchet's shoulder and answered, mainly so that Prowl could hear the conversation.

"I hear ya, 'Bee. What's up?"

"We got a bit of a situation," Bumblebee said. "Visitors, actually. Four of them."

"Huh. Who?"

"Soundwave's casseticons," Bumblebee said, and now he sounded almost embarrassed. "I think they're trying to surrender."

Jazz shared a look with Prowl. "'Trying'?"

"Well, Frenzy's in the 'on his knees, hands behind his head' pose, but Rumble's frame won't let him get his hands back there, and Ravage and Laserbeak...well, it'd be funny if wasn't those little slags."

"I'm on my way!" Jazz said, already running for the door. He turned, doing a half-step and waving at Prowl. "You coming or what?"

Shaking his head, Prowl sighed and set about the work of outlining the questions for Soundwave. Tacticians were not designed for the snap judgments of dealing with an emotional standoff or surrender, but he could trust Jazz to deal with that, later analyzing the Third's field work. Then Prowl could get down to the task of deciding what to do with Soundwave's unholy terrors if and when they actually did surrender.

TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

Chaos swarmed the Ark's entrance. So many mechs lined the open doorway, weapons drawn, that Jazz wondered if someone had a tip of an ambush lying in wait. He spotted Bumblebee towards the front of the group, the only one who wasn't standing still, fidgeting from one pede to the other and looking around as if he expected a firefight to break out any second.

Which was entirely possible. Jazz spotted the troublemakers several dozen meters away, a little line of Soundwave's cassetticons facing the Ark and snapping at each other as if a dozen rifles weren't pointing towards them.

The tiny mechs were each a fraction of the size of a standard mech, but no one would make the mistake of underestimating them. Soundwave was so dangerous partly because he carried this little army with him, and it was strange to see them giving themselves up.

Or trying to give themselves up. Frenzy and Rumble at least could assume the 'kneeling with hands behind the head' pose of a textbook surrender, but Laserbeak could only stand there with her wings raised awkwardly and Ravage sat on his haunches, licking sand from his paw. It would have been comical if Ratchet's razor claws weren't obvious.

"So what's the down low?" Jazz asked, coming up beside Bumblebee.

"They showed up a couple breems ago," Bumblebee said. "Mirage's out there looking around, but he hasn't seen any other 'Cons so far."

"So Soundwave's little monsters just stopped by for brunch?" Jazz asked. "Have they said anything?"

"I...hm," Bumblebee said slowly. "Not really? It's more like they're yelling at each other. I'd ask Blaster, but apparently he's stuck in a meeting with Prime."

"Huh, go fig," Jazz said without any sympathy. "Guess I'll mosey on over and say hi to the neighbors."

"You want some back up on that?" Bumblebee said. "Or you just gonna present them with an easy, high ranking target?"

"Hey," Jazz said, grinning over his shoulder. "Who you calling easy?"

_Besides_, he figured, nudging aside a mech with a rifle barrel as he walked out. _I should have this kind of backup on a mission._

His fans whirled a little faster the moment he stepped into the sunlight. Even with the sun setting, the desert was murder on exposed steel, pulling a mech's temperature up so quickly that coolant could evaporate within a couple hours and rubber could melt to the asphalt. If Jazz felt the heat, then Soundwave's brats must have been broiling.

And yet they stayed there, kneeling in the sand. Ravage licked several burrs and sandbriars out of his wrist cabling, giving the rest of them a disdainful sniff, but he made no move to attack. And as he came closer, Jazz heard them snapping at each other.

"Ravage," Frenzy sighed, venting heavily in the sun, "seriously man, you're gonna get us fragged if you don't do something to look surrendery."

Rumble glanced sideways at the feline mech, shoulders bowing further as he used his upraised arms to shade himself.

"Please," he groaned. "I don't wanna risk melting just to end up getting shot."

"Ravage, lay down and look helpless already!" Frenzy snapped.

"'Look' helpless?" Jazz asked, coming close enough to throw a long shadow over the four of them. "You got the entire Ark's attention. Now ain't the time to find out how twitchy those bots get."

"Oh slag," Rumble whimpered. "Oh slag oh slag-Frenzy, why'd you talk us into this? I don't wanna get slagged!"

"None of us wanna get slagged," Frenzy growled at him, then looked up, craning his neck to meet Jazz's visor. "You got the boss in here, right? Last known coordinates were coming this way, so he's here, yeah?"

"And how..." Jazz asked, kneeling down, "would you know where he was headed?"

"Well duh," Rumble said under his vent cycling. "Carrier model. We know."

"He said he was taking you back to outpost nine," Frenzy said, coughing out excess heat condensation. "But when he stopped pinging us, we knew something was wrong and we got back in time to see one last Autubot clearing things out and taking off."

Making a mental note to scold Smokescreen, Jazz nodded once at the small Decepticon. In the distance, heat waves curled up from the dust and made the desert shimmer. A tiny drop of coolant leaked from Laserbeak's eye and hissed along her beak, gone before it could drip.

"If we do have him," Jazz started, "and I'm not saying we do-"

"You have him?!" Rumble gasped, sitting up as if he'd taken a jolt of energon and scooting forward on his knees. "Please oh please take us to him, please-"

"Shut up," Frenzy snapped, and cuffed Rumble on the head. "If you freak out, you're gonna get us shot, and then we won't see him!"

"You came all this way just to see Soundwave?" Jazz said, leaning closer to see optic to visor with him. Normally he never would have come this close, but the multiple red dots of laser scopes on all their heads reassured him that he was safe.

"You don't understand," Rumble said, ignoring how Frenzy cuffed him again. "You ain't a cassette. Soundwave's our carrier."

Laserbeak squawked in agreement.

"Okay then..." Jazz tilted his head. "Educate me. Why're all you little 'cons over here giving my mechs a great chance for target practice over one carrier?"

"You wanna recharge in some weird mech?" Rumble demanded. "'Cause I ain't going in some other carrier model."

"Yeah," said Frenzy. "It's the boss or nothing."

"He needs us," Rumble said. "He goes to pieces without us."

"Uh-huh." Jazz stood up, brushing sand off his knees. "And it wouldn't be 'cause four little cassettes ain't long for this world in the Decepticon army?"

Rumble and Frenzy shared a look with Ravage and Laserbeak. None of them argued, and even Ravage pawed at the dust, patting an imaginary glitchmouse.

"Not just us," Rumble said.

"The boss has been messed up for awhile," Frenzy said, staring at a rock by Jazz's pedes. "Wouldn't say why. We knew it was getting bad, but..."

"He wouldn't just leave us," Rumble said. "I don't know why he came here without us, but he must of forgot us..."

"So we're surrendering," Frenzy said, and there were nods and murmurs from the other cassettes. "'Cause you got him here, right? We wanna surrender."

Jazz watched them for another moment. Laserbeak gave a dry cough, and Ravage bathed another paw, which only made the rest of his frame look even dustier. If they left them here, the four of them might just collapse and save them the trouble. How far had they traveled on their own just to get here?

"'Bee," Jazz said over his communication array, loud enough for the cassettes to hear. "We're gonna need the tiniest stasis cuffs we got. Bringing in four prisoners."

"Really?" Frenzy and Rumble both stared with dropped jaws and impossibly wide optics.

"Already there," Bumblebee said, "at your position."

Jazz chuckled. "Got'cha. Okay, my main 'bot, toss 'em to me."

On cue, Mirage dropped his invisibility screen, appearing next to Ravage and startling the cassette into Frenzy. Stasis cuffs went around Rumble and Frenzy's wrists, and with a little effort Ravage's as well, and the cuffs had to make a collar around Laserbeak. She squawked and rubbed her beak along the ground as if she could wipe off the sudden static clouding her receptors.

Feeling like the head of the most ridiculous parade, Jazz led them back to the Ark, holding Ravage's cuffs in one hand so the smaller mech could walk on his hind legs. That the cassette allowed it surprised him. From what little they knew about Soundwave's symbiotes, Ravage was the oldest of the four, dedicated to the Decepticons and an absolute whirlwind of claws and laserfire in battle. And now he allowed himself to be manhandled at Frenzy's behest. All for the sake of their carrier.

Jazz decided he needed to have a chat with Blaster, as soon as Prime was done with him.

"Brig?" Bumblebee asked when they came closer.

"Secondary brig," Jazz said, reverting to their internal comm before Bumblebee could voice his confusion.

_I know, I know-it's a glorified supply closet. Get it cleared out. There's no way I'm putting these mechs in the same room as Soundwave, not yet._

_Got it, boss,_ Bumblebee nodded, turning to go when they both heard a loud clang at their pedes.

Jazz looked down in shock. Frenzy had fallen facefirst onto the floor and lay still. His first thought was that an Autobot had shot him, but everyone else looked down in surprise and the other cassettes didn't.

"Oh...slag..." Rumble vented, leaning over his fallen comrade before going to one knee. "Aft'head, tol'ja we couldn't take the heat."

_Okay_, Jazz said to Bumblebee, already scooping up Rumble in his free hand. _New plan. Grab Frenzy and let's head to the brig's medbay._

_That ain't too close to Soundwave?_ Bumblebee asked, picking up Frenzy and holding him up for inspection.

_Yeah, but I'd rather have four live aces to hold over him than just giving him a card and saying 'sorry for your loss'. _

TBC...


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

With the symbiotes securely locked down in recharge and Ratchet yelling something about being taken for granted, Jazz skedaddled out of the brig and out of Ratchet's reach before the medbot could saddle him with babysitting duty. Too many things to do, and while he sympathized with him, Jazz simply couldn't let himself get bogged down in Decepticon daycare.

"You third-rate Third!" Ratchet yelled, throwing a spare lugnut at Jazz. "Quit solving your problems by dumping them on me!"

"Thank you, Ratchet!" Jazz said, ducking the lugnut and nudging two of their security escorts into the line of fire. "You mean the world to me, Ratchet! Couldn't do this without you, Ratchet!"

Leaving the two cowed mechs behind on guard duty, Jazz grabbed Bumblebee by the shoulders and steered him away from the brig, safely rescuing him from Ratchet's attentions. They moved at a quick trot, the medbot's yelling fading farther away as they took the stairs.

"It's only a couple unconscious symbiotes," Bumblebee swore as he ran beside Jazz. "The way Ratchet's yelling, you'd think we dropped the whole Spec Ops corps in there."

"I don't think he's forgiven us for the time we did," Jazz said. "Come on, we gotta get to Blaster before he goes into recharge."

As they came to the top of the stairwell, Jazz paused just long enough to make sure Bumblebee was keeping pace, then led him around several mechs in the corridor, ignoring the grumbling that there was no running in the halls. The main meeting room was just ahead, but the door was closed. No way of knowing if the meeting was still going, and Jazz wasn't about to just barge in on Prime like that. Maybe he could just peek in discreetly...

The doors opened, and Ironhide led Blaster out, patting him on the shoulder. Blaster nodded mutely, one hand on his head, with Eject and Rewind slumped in one arm.

"Blaster!" Jazz called one, waving his hand. "Just the mech I needed to see!"

The Autobot carrier cringed, taking a step back and accidentally knocking into Optimus, who steadied him.

"You might wanna give him a break," Ironhide said. "We kinda gave him a real going over."

"Besides," Optimus said. "Red Alert mentioned something about Soundwave's symbiotes coming to call."

"Yup!" Jazz grinned. "Four lost little Decepticons come looking for their carrier. But you don't want me to tell you the story. Bumblebee here..."

Without giving the smaller bot warning, Jazz put an arm around Bumblebee's waist and scooted him forward.

"Whoa whoa," Bumblebee gasped, looking up at Ironhide in too much surprise to object.

"'Bee was there from start to finish," Jazz continued, "so I'll leave him here with you, while Blaster and I-"

Blaster groaned.

"-talk about the specifics of carrier models."

"Sounds like you have something in mind," Optimus said. "All right. Blaster's all yours. And maybe you can ask him more about Soundwave's stories as well."

"Haven't we suffered enough?" Blaster moaned, and his symbiotes moaned as well. "We'll never write another story again, I swear."

"My spark sings to hear it," Jazz said, pulling him away. "Now let's talk carriers and symbiotes."

Bumblebee shot a glare at Jazz, but he didn't risk speaking out loud, using on their Spec Ops channel.

_You traitor, _Bumblebee growled._ I'll never forgive you for this. _

_I owe you one, _Jazz promised.

_A party,_ Bumblebee said.

Jazz nodded once. _A big one. Questionable energon and everything._

Still not happy, Bumblebee vented in resignation and went in with Ironhide and Optimus. In the hall, Jazz steered Blaster in the direction of the living quarters.

"Aw, come on," Blaster whimpered. "Seriously, I haven't had a chance to recharge since we found you-"

"Look, just answer me one thing," Jazz said soothingly, "and then I'm out of your way."

Blaster stopped and looked at him. "Promise?"

"I swear it on my spark," Jazz said.

"You're a lousy liar," Blaster said, starting to walk again, "but what's the question?"

"What's the relationship between a symbiote and a carrier?"

"Oh, is that all?" Blaster said with a roll of his optics. "Ask me something simple like where does Primus come from, why don'cha?"

"C'mon, mech," Jazz said, "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"I know, I know..." Blaster shrugged. "It just boils down to they're my cassettes and I take care of them."

"But they're not sparklings," Jazz said. "They're mechs, same as you or me."

"Yeah, but..." Blaster paused, groping for the words. "They're small, y'know. Fragile compared to us."

Blaster glanced at his cassettes drooping in his arms. Rewind and Eject slumped against each other, slipping in and out of recharge, curled up against his chestplate. He gave each a nudge and had them fold up, sleepily tucking up in his compartment.

"They do a lot for the cause," Blaster said. "But they're so breakable, too. Carriers tend to be very protective, and cassettes tend to be...um. Well, clingy, I guess."

"Clingy enough to surrender to enemy forces just to get back to their carrier?" Jazz asked.

"If the other choice was being alone with the Decepticons, sure." Blaster faced him with a long suffering sigh. "Symbiosis means that I share everything with them, and them with me. Imagine if you had a constant line open with someone...Prowl for instance."

"Why'd you pick him?" Jazz asked, frowning.

"Just saying," Blaster said with a little handwave. "You'd feel closer, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have to talk through it all the time, but just having it there...just having it. Wouldn't that do something to you?"

Jazz nodded once. "So once you get used to that connection, your little guys are like extensions of yourself."

"Parts of me," Blaster nodded. "So Soundwave's cassettes came here? I'm not surprised."

"Would your bots ever surrender to Megatron?" Jazz asked, too casually.

Blaster gave him a look. "No, you paranoid aft. My cassettes aren't stupid. Soundwave's mechs can probably trust Autobots not to shoot them through the spark."

With an apologetic nod, Jazz came to a stop, gesturing at Blaster's door.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," he said, sounding sincere. "Well, a promise is a promise. Thanks."

"Sure," Blaster said, opening his quarters. He hesitated in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "Hey. You think we might really get Soundwave to become an Autobot?"

"Stranger things have happened," Jazz said, turning to go.

"Jazz."

He looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Blaster gave him a sly look, leaning against the doorframe. "Why'd you get so upset about me choosing Prowl?"

"Look at the time," Jazz said, frowning. "I got stories to comb through. Y'know, trashy romances that I had no say in being part of. I'll talk to you later, 'bot."

TBC...


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 13**

If he had to read Soundwave's stories, Jazz refused to be anywhere that other bots could see him. Curled up in the comfortable chair in Prowl's office (strike one), Jazz propped his pedes up on the desk (strike two) with a small cube of energon in easy reach on the console (strike three). When Prowl finally came back from interrogating the Decepticon Third in Command, he'd find the Autobot Third in Command breaking all of the tactician's office rules, and Jazz would be in trouble.

Which would be a nice distraction from the things he was reading.

Spec-Ops Mission #98, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes, was naturally the first. Jazz had hoped for Soundwave's private thoughts and feelings, but the Decepticon seemed more interested in describing his shiny and wriggly prisoner.

The chain used to lash his axles and wrists made an appearance, and most of the book was devoted to the multiple overloads that Jazz suffered. And while a few of Soundwave's loyalties were called into question, those questions usually ended with Jazz screaming in pleasure.

By the time he finished that story, Bumblebee had escaped from his debriefing and sent him all the titles that they thought came from Soundwave. Between Blaster, Prowl, Bumblebee and Mirage, a list of suggestive titles had formed, all of them part of the Spec-Ops series.

He started at the beginning with Spec-Ops Mission #1 : Jazz - Agent of the Autobots. It sounded like one of the overblown adventures Ironhide had mentioned, and he scrolled through it with an optic for any mention of Decepticons or-

_Jazz held Bumblebee flush against himself, securely gripping his waist as the small mech bucked in frustration. Jazzed teased the small mech's shoulder tire, tracing the pattern of his tread completely, then squeezing the hard rubber firmly._

_"Commander," Bumblebee whimpered, his pedes scraping the floor without success. "Please..."_

_"Now now," Jazz murmured, his words only a soft vent over Bumblebee's audios. "Are you ready for your...debriefing?"_

By the time he reached the end, Jazz had finished his energon and considered calling Sunstreaker for a supply of whatever spiked fuel he had.

Spec-Ops Mission #15 : He Wouldn't Surrender... Jazz groaned, wincing as his fans kicked in and set up a droning vibration in his head.

_Jazz struggled, his arms held down by both Skywarp and Thundercracker, and roared in rage as Starscream knelt between his pedes. The Decepticon Second grabed Jazz's knees and pushed them apart, laughing at the Autobot's snarl._

_"Fight all you want," Starscream chuckled, humming in satisfaction as Jazz writhed. "But you will take the purple insignia, and you will follow me obediently."_

_Gritting his denta as his ports were accessed, Jazz did not give Starscream the satisfaction of screaming. _

By the third story, Jazz had sat up slightly to give his radiator and fans space to draw in more air. His joints ached from sitting so long in one position, and he ran his hand over his neck cables, massaging them gently. Spec-Ops Mission #332: Harvest of Energon promised to be better, a straightforward mission to save Autobots from Hook and-

_Missing one leg and gripping the side of the medical table with his one good hand, Jazz fought through the white hot haze of pain in his cortex. He could not stop the agony, but he could find his vocal routine and shut down his voice...if only he could clear his thoughts long enough._

_And then the pain was gone, leaving Jazz in a sudden cloud of relief. His every cable relaxed and he vented heavily, aware of only a hand coming to rest on his chestplate._

_"Good job, soldier," Ratchet said softly, leaning over him. "You got everyone out, stopped Megatron's doomsday device, and made Cybertron safe for democracy."_

_Jazz smiled. That was all he needed to hear._

_"What're you gonna do now?" Ratchet asked._

_"Hm..." Jazz glanced up at the medbot, his optics softening. "How about you?"_

_Gently so as not to hurt his hero, Ratchet bent and kissed him._

The door opening and Prowl's stern silhouette against the light were a welcome relief.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" Prowl asked, flipping on the light and closing the door behind himself.

"I didn't want anyone to know I was in here reading trash," Jazz groaned, tossing the datapad onto the desk. "Primus, I feel like I've been tangled in knots."

As Prowl set down his own datapad, he refrained from knocking Jazz's pedes off the desk, only glaring until Jazz gingerly straightened himself, moving locked joints and putting his pedes back on the floor. The empty cube was cleaned away with a wordless frown, and Prowl sat down quietly in his spare seat, unaffected at finding the Third here.

It was hardly the first time Jazz had commandeered his office, after all.

"They aren't the best reading," Prowl conceded.

"You read them already?" Jazz asked.

"I was the one who combed through the list Spec Ops created," Prowl said. "Careful analysis set Soundwave's work apart."

"All of them?" Jazz sighed. "I've just barely finished three."

"You look more like you waged war against three," Prowl said. "Are you all right?"

"You know I ain't alright!" Jazz snapped, curling up in the chair again. "Nothing about this is all right."

Prowl vented in mild exasperation. "You are letting this affect you too much."

"How come you ain't freaking out?" Jazz grumbled. "Our enemy slipped code into the Ark's mainframe."

"Only to add his stories," Prowl said, "in admittedly the most roundabout way of trying to tell us he wanted to defect."

"You sure about that?" Jazz said. "'Cause so far all I'm seeing is 'Jazz gets interfaced every which way but loose'."

"I am reasonably sure," Prowl said, which meant that the tactician had already calculated the odds of being wrong to less than a percent. "Red Alert is still running diagnostics on the Ark mainframe, but so far nothing has come up."

"That ain't what I mean and you know it," Jazz growled.

Unintimidated, Prowl reached over and picked up the datapad, looking over the story Jazz had finished.

"Going in order?"

Jazz nodded once, curtly.

Prowl paused, giving a long vent as he stared at the door. Only after a moment's thought did he face Jazz, reading his hunched shoulders and darkened visor. Jazz trusted few mechs to see him this way, brooding and moody, quiet as if he listening for a surprise attack.

"No one thinks you do any of that," Prowl tried to assure him. "You're letting your own anxiety wear you down."

"I've had it pointed out recently," Jazz snapped, "that I'm shiny."

"Hardly a fault," Prowl said.

"Dammit-"

"Jazz," Prowl said over him. He did not often have to use his rank, but he could push the sense of authority to make the Third listen. "Your paranoia is affecting your performance. Perhaps you need to come to terms with the source of your anxiety about these stories."

Jazz stared at him, then glanced at the door. The console lay between him and escape, but it was hardly insurmountable. A quick hop and then through-the lock wouldn't stop him for more than half a second-

"You cannot run away from this." Prowl motioned toward the datapad. "It might be best to simply face it headlong."

"You gonna lock me up like Soundwave did?" Jazz demanded.

Wrong thing to say. Prowl sat up straight as if struck and his doorwings tightened, and while he made no threatening moves, the air around him turned heavy.

"I'm not a Decepticon,"Prowl said, narrowing his optics. "Don't judge my interfacing by their standards."

Jazz held his look a moment longer, then vented and looked down. His mouth twisted. Prowl was possibly his best friend. He didn't deserve how biting Jazz could get.

"Sorry. Should'na said that."

A klik passed before Prowl similarly vented and relaxed. Jazz posed an unusual problem. Almost all of the mechs in this conflict had been alive for thousands of vorn. They were used to physical intimacy and interfacing.

But those same thousands of vorn at war created deep seated paranoia and fear that eased only when around their own faction, and sometimes not even then. For mechs who commonly rooted out traitors and spies, trust could not be given so easily. Spec Ops bots and security personnel were notorious for often crossing cables only with mechs that had somehow proven their loyalty.

Jazz, in command of that entire branch of the Autobots, apparently did not even do that. For all his reputation as a chaotic bot, the most he indulged in was questionable energon and the occasional off-hours party.

"You aren't the only bot," Prowl said quietly, "who has refrained from crossing cables."

Looking like he'd wished he'd never confided in the tactician, Jazz curled up a little tighter. He gave a half-shrug.

"Ain't like my seals are still intact," Jazz muttered. "Anyone going into espionage knows they're gonna be force-downloaded eventually."

Prowl didn't reply for several seconds. Force downloading was a terrible violation, an enemy creeping around in a mech's very cortex. Suffering through one often left bots hurt, twitchy and unable to interface for orns, sometimes whole cycles. For an already paranoid bot who'd only known interfacing with Decepticons...

"That was done under duress," Prowl said. "Against your will. And it isn't fair that you've never experienced it with someone who wasn't out to hurt you."

Jazz squirmed. The air had grown thick and tense, and he waved his hand as if to clear it.

"Well, no big deal, right?" he said in a forced light tone. "Ain't like there's on the job training like that."

Prowl didn't answer for several seconds, long enough that Jazz started to feel awkward. Jazz might tease and flirt, but he never followed through, and Prowl never reacted. Had he said the wrong thing?

"If you wanted help in that regard," Prowl said slowly, meeting Jazz's look with the same intensity that he gave his job. "I would be willing. Honored, even."

Jazz's optics widened, flashing his visor to a bright white. His hands clenched into fists as his shoulders stiffened.

"I don't need pity," Jazz said tightly.

"I'm not offering any," Prowl said in the same horribly calm voice, nevermind that his fans were whirring to life. "You are my friend. I don't like seeing you in pain."

Jazz's hands relaxed only very slowly, and he vented in and out. His fans hummed harder, making his headache worse, and he looked at Prowl as if his friend had suddenly turned upside down. A subroutine asked permission for additional coolant, and he allowed a flood that dropped his temperature several degrees. It did nothing to help his headache, and he pressed one hand against his helm.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked, leaning forward with one hand out in concern.

"I'm fine," Jazz said quickly, smiling weakly despite himself. "I'm...slag. Usually I'm the one throwing you for a loop."

"I'm sorry," Prowl said. He let his hand fall and glanced away. "I didn't mean to do so."

Jazz vented, not at Prowl but at himself and the situation. His simple, easy, straightforward friendship had suddenly become complicated.

"I am one messed up mech," Jazz said softly, closing his optics.

Prowl paused, nodding in agreement. "But shiny."

In disbelief, Jazz raised his head. Laughed once, then again.

"I..." Jazz smiled wanly. "Would you believe I got a headache?"

Prowl half-smiled. "Likewise. That was rather nerve-wracking to ask."

No doubt. His friendship with the tactician was unlikely, the bot most comfortable with chaos finding companionship with the bot consumed by patterns and planning. Jazz still wasn't sure how Prowl's cortex worked, but sometimes, when he had spare time between missions, he looked over Prowl's shoulder as he worked, sorting thousands of details in neat rows of statistics and variables. Jazz could spot the best options in a split second emergency, but Prowl...Prowl could see *everything.*

No wonder he glitched when it all started moving. If Jazz introduced too many variables or shuffled the stacks in Prowl's head too quickly, then the tactician glitched from input overload.

The first time it had happened, Jazz had called Ratchet in a panic, sick that Prowl might not wake up. The fear hadn't gone away when Ratchet assured him that sometimes it happened. The dull optics, body slumped like a doll, and worst of all, the soft whine of the vocal processor losing power...

That Prowl could reboot and continue analysis, knowing he could glitch if he absorbed too much too quickly, seemed far more impressive than just sending bullets downrange at a Decepticon. Any bot could aim a gun. Only Prowl could aim Jazz.

"Would it make you...?" Jazz started, cringing inside as soon as he asked. A flush of heat raced down his face and throat cables. "Primus, what a dumb question-"

Despite Jazz's discomfit, Prowl chuckled once.

"No," Prowl assured him. "You choose how much of yourself you share. Even if your cortex were completely chaotic, the interfacing would not cause a glitch. Unless you intentionally tried..."

"No way," Jazz said quickly. "Um...can we? I mean, not right now. I got the rest of these things to read, and you got your shift, and...but..."

Prowl's optics narrowed, but not in confusion or caution. Half-lidded, with a satisfied smile, Prowl reached forward and put his hand on Jazz's.

"When you are ready," Prowl said. "Say, after today's shift? I need to compile today's data, and you still have all that reading to do."

"Yeah," Jazz muttered, looking back at the datapad. "You, uh, you said you already read these?"

"The ones on the list that Blaster and your mechs gave me," Prowl nodded. "Later on, after you've finished, I would like to discuss any similarities you found, clues to Soundwave's thoughts that leap out to you."

"He's a messed up freak," Jazz muttered.

"Beyond that," Prowl said. "I still have to check in on Soundwave's cassettes, brief Optimus on everything so far, and meet with Red Alert."

"And after all this," Jazz sighed, waving his hand at the datapad. "I gotta get reports from Mirage and 'Bee. There's no way Megatron ain't in a tizzy over Soundwave up and leaving."

Prowl nodded. "So after shift then."

Jazz rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sounds good. Sounds...geez."

He looked at Prowl and gave a long vent, suddenly aware of how hard his fans were blowing. He mercilessly shut them down, not caring how he started to overhead immediately.

"You sure about this?" Jazz said, not sure if he was giving a chance to back out to Prowl or himself.

"Are you nervous?" Prowl asked.

"Yeah," Jazz said as if it was obvious. He was acting like a lovestruck sparkling, or worse, one of the characters in these awful stories. "Aren't you?"

Prowl shook his head. "I rarely interface, but I trust you utterly."

Jazz started his fans again.

"I'm...gonna go finish reading," Jazz said, standing grabbing his datapad, edging around Prowl and knocking his hip against the desk. "Ping me when you're done, okay?"

Prowl didn't move, only sliding his optics to follow Jazz moving to the door.

"I look forward to it," he said softly.

As soon as Jazz had the door closed after himself, he ran his fans at maximum and released a flood of coolant into his systems. He didn't immediately head to the cafeteria to resupply. A vague plan formed in his head about meeting up with Prowl to refuel-a cube of energon, coolant. At least it would give himself something to do with his hands as he sat across from Prowl, spoke to Prowl, saw his reflection in Prowl's optics.

He smacked his fist against the wall, shuddering as he vented out.

TBC...

(Author's Note: Hey all, school's starting up again, so these updates will slow down quite a bit, sad to say. But updates will continue. Just...very slowly.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

The Ark mess hall was large enough to hold a full brigade of regular sized Autobots at once, although usually mechs only stopped by to refuel and then return to their berth or one of the make-shift lounges created out of unused offices or bays. There was enough traffic in and out to reassure Jazz that help was immediately at hand, but far enough on the other side of the hall that his conversation with Prowl was private.

"Any new developments with Soundwave's terrors?" Jazz asked, looking askance over his energon cube. "Singing like canaries?"

"Not yet," Prowl said. He didn't comment on how Jazz twitched every so often, surreptitiously checking all escape routes. "They are still in recharge."

"'Still'?" Jazz echoed. "It's been like ten orn."

"Even so," Prowl said. "Ratchet confirmed they are not faking. He says they depleted their reserve batteries coming here. All of their fluids were on the last drop."

"Ouch." Jazz knew about driving in the desert at noon, running low on coolant and fuel, one step away from melting his engine. "Are they functional?"

"Mostly," Prowl said. "There are some scorchmarks and burned cables. Ratchet guesses that they had to fight to get away from the Decepticons."

Jazz chuckled. "Now that's a fight I'd of liked to Pay Per View. Four cassettes versus the Decepticon armada."

"I doubt it was the whole armada," Prowl said. "Probably one or two guards called to take them back from wherever Soundwave had placed them."

"Huh." Jazz tapped the table, watching the ripples in the glowing energon.

"What?" Prowl tilted his head.

"Just thinking," Jazz murmured. "Frenzy was right. I'd have shot them dead if they'd made one move, just one wrong move. And they were about to fall over."

"They were hardly helpless," Prowl pointed out. "If you were down on fluids, would you be helpless?"

Jazz grinned. "Don't get me wrong. I've been on the wrong side of Ravage's claws too many times to feel bad for 'em. Just...I been there, y'know?"

"...no." Prowl folded his arms on the table and leaned forward slightly. "What is it like?"

Jazz met his look for a moment. Autobots worked like machines within one huge machine, each of them serving a vital function. Prowl, Perceptor, Red Alert-they were the cortex and optics. Spec Ops was one of the many weapons they could wield. Sometimes, in the depths of their curiosity or excitement, the analysis bots forgot that another living mech was bringing back all their reconnaissance, sometimes ordering them deeper and deeper into danger forgetting that they were not a simple probe.

Prowl didn't make that mistake. He had a keen sense of what he was and what he was not, and although Jazz envied those dead silent systems, Prowl was not a Spec Ops bot. Just like Jazz was not a long term tactician. If he even thought about spending most of his days sitting at a console cataloging reams of data, his root mode trembled, itching to change into his alt mode and turn donuts on the road.

"It's a thrill," Jazz said. "It feels like flooding myself with coolant. And I'm still overheated. And all those Decepticons are trying to kill me, and they can't. 'Cause I'm just that good."

"You've come in rather bedraggled sometimes," Prowl said, smiling.

"Can't dodge 'em all," Jazz conceded, and he slouched in his seat, resting one arm on the backrest. "I dunno. Coming back home with nothing but the open road and Bob Seger blasting on the radio...there ain't nothing like it."

Jazz felt a little tension ease out of his frame, and he was sure Prowl saw it, too. He grew more aware of how much he was venting and fanning, and he manually turned down his cooling systems. The humming in his head he hadn't even been aware of began to fade.

"Feeling better?" Prowl asked.

"...yeah." Jazz nodded. "The, uh, headache's kinda going away."

"I'm glad," Prowl said, and he lightly ran his knuckles over Jazz's hand. "I don't want you to be afraid."

"I'm not-"

The automatic denial cut off. Jazz had to admit it. He was afraid. Subroutines in his cortex hovered at the ready, a hair trigger from playing out. Combat. Escape. Combat *and* escape. Imagine Jazz grabbing a table, braining Prowl, leaping onto the table behind them and climbing up into the maintenance ducts. He could just imagine the debriefing with Optimus.

"I'm doing okay," Jazz said after a klik. "Just...warn me if you're gonna do anything."

"What's 'anything'?" Prowl asked.

"Touching. Moving." He lowered his head, wishing he wasn't on edge. "Venting too hard."

"I'll do my best," Prowl assured him. "Would you mind if I...hold your hand?"

Jazz swallowed reflexively. "Sure."

He closed his optics. The nice thing about the visor was that Prowl couldn't tell. The tactician's hand slid over his own, resting so lightly that Jazz could have pulled away easily.

"All right?"

"Yeah." Jazz nodded, looking at him again. "Yeah. ...you feel nice."

Prowl smiled, not put off by Jazz's anxiety.

"So," Jazz started again, eager to turn the conversation back off himself. "You read all of Soundwave's stuff?"

"I think so," Prowl said. "Your subordinates do good work. All of the stories they collected were clearly from the same mech, and since we have verification on one of them..."

"How can you tell?" Jazz asked. "I know it's got something to do with patterns of words, but I didn't get it when you brought it up."

"Something like that," Prowl said. "Some mechs use the same words over and over. You noticed that Soundwave has his own habit of not using linking verbs."

"His trashy little novels didn't read like that," Jazz said.

"Not everyone writes like they talk," Prowl said. "Soundwave has a habit of using human adverb phrases and dashes. And every single one of his stories involves you."

"Yeah, that I noticed," Jazz said. "That mech seriously needs a therapist."

"I would argue the entire Decepticon higher command needs therapy," Prowl said.

Jazz chuckled. "Now that'd be something. Megatron and Starscream, couples counseling. Imagine ol' Starscream...'Megatron! You never appreciated me!'"

Prowl chuckled, leaning against the table as he relaxed. As pleased as it made Jazz to see, he couldn't help spotting the other mechs in the mess hall. Prowl at ease and joking with the same 'bot that usually antagonized him with little pranks drew the attention of more than one Autobot, all of whom began to stare.

Jazz tossed back the rest of his energon. This wasn't something he wanted all optics on.

"I think we're just about done here," Jazz said. "Let's blow this joint."

Furrowing his brow, Prowl likewise finished his cube and set it down. "Are you certain?"

And it suddenly slammed home on Jazz exactly what leaving the mess hall meant. He went very still, meeting Prowl's look, and his vents sped up. Little tremors shook his whole frame.

"If you want to wait—" Prowl started.

"No," Jazz cut him off, then reset his vocal processor to a softer tone. "No. I want this to happen. Just...slow. Safe. Somewhere safe."

Prowl nodded. "I understand. I took the liberty of arranging a place."

Wordlessly, Jazz nodded, turning his hand and gripping Prowl's. The tactician stood, giving Jazz a small tug to prompt him to follow. Painfully aware of everyone's looks, Jazz went with him, telling himself he'd start a rumor that his time with Soundwave left his cortex compromised and in need of coddling.

Out the doors, through the halls...Jazz expected to be led to Prowl's berth. Or maybe his own berth. Maybe Prowl's office? Heck, maybe Jazz's office, little used as it was. He sort of hoped Prowl didn't want to use the Spec Ops office. There was ammo and gear inside that the Second in Command really shouldn't know about. They were heading closer to the main meeting room... Jazz snickered despite his nerves. Maybe Prowl wanted a happy memory to lighten up those boring briefings.

But then they took a left past the meeting room, and Jazz grew increasingly lost. His shoulders hunched as he the Ark looked alien and dangerous. Outside in a secluded cave? Or...

Medbay. Like a clean defrag, Jazz felt a load of tension lift. Ratchet's medical bay was the one place nothing bad ever happened, where any Spec Ops bot could take shelter after being chewed up by a mission. And Ratchet, acerbic control freak that he was, also knew everything about Jazz. Even the things Jazz didn't want to know about Jazz. If Jazz trusted anyone, it was the medbot who'd seen him at his absolute worst and never held it against him.

Ratchet looked up from his console, smiling faintly, then went back to cataloging data. "I was wondering when you'd drop in. Lock the door behind ya, huh?"

They'd done this before, medical exams and programming baselines before Jazz went out to infiltrate a base. He knew the routine so well that even with the nervous static in his head, he shifted and held the side of the door. Stood for several kliks, venting deeply. Closed the door. Didn't run. Turned the lock. Then let go of the lock and turned back.

"This is really weird," Jazz said, laughing once at himself. "Feel like I'm about to go on a mission."

"That's not a bad way of looking at it," Ratchet said. "But maybe not the best way. I don't wanna have to put both of you back together after this."

"'Both of us'?" Jazz said, glancing at Prowl warily. "I'm the bundle of nerves right now, not him."

"Yeah, you are," Ratchet said with his usual tact. "I admit it, Jazz, I'm glad you're doing this here, but it ain't just to spare your delicate sensibilities. If you freak out, you're the one with the lethal subroutines and combat programs."

Jazz didn't argue. He'd had to squash those routines only minutes ago. And here he was about to go...do whatever it was mechs did before interfacing...consensual interfacing. The sheer amount of unknowns he'd never experienced had him on high alert. And if his threat flowcharts overrode his good sense, he could end up attacking Prowl point blank.

He would have flooded himself with coolant again except he was already in the middle of a coolant cycle. His heat dumps were less than room temperature. One more flush and he might develop condensation on his cables.

Jazz had killed mechs up close before, and the most vivid memories played over for him. Optics going dark, the mech's voice processor screeching into shut down, the flagging grip as they slid down his body. Even warbuilds had exposed cables and cords between that thick armor, and Prowl...a tactician's armor was nothing compared to that. Prowl ran quiet, not strong. He wouldn't even need a blade to wreak havoc on Prowl.

"Ratchet..." Jazz whispered. "How do you know I ain't gonna blow this all to hell?"

"'Cause you're just scared," Ratchet said, leaning back in his seat as he regarded their saboteur. "And you've done good work while you were scared before."

Jazz pressed his hand to his helm. "Slag. Getting that headache again."

"Well, that I can take care of," Ratchet said, reaching into a drawer at his desk. "Prowl, how about you go get the back room ready? I gotta talk a few things over with him."

"Of course." Prowl turned back to Jazz. "Whenever you're ready."

Jazz tightened up at hearing that, nodding once. As Prowl turned the corner to head further into the private rooms, Jazz half-raised his hand, already wanting to call him back. He stood like that, stupidly watching where Prowl had been.

"Do you wanna call this off?" Ratchet asked when Prowl disappeared. "'Cause you can. Ain't no shame in it."

Jazz lowered his hand, mouth pressed in a hard line. He activated their internal comm line, not trusting his voice.

_No_, he said. _I can do this. I'm just..._

"Scared," Ratchet said, not scolding him but not letting him retreat onto their internal line either. "It's okay. Everyone's nervous their first time, and you got more reasons to be than anyone else."

"Will it...hurt?" Jazz asked. Immediately he felt worse. He'd dragged himself back to base on shredded tires a few times, leaking energon, armor scratched and dented to the pit. A little plug and play shouldn't have scared him so badly.

"No," Ratchet said, "it won't. And quit beating yourself up over it. You wouldn't be this hard on anyone else. Quit acting like you gotta be the Jazzmeister all the time."

"Argh..." Jazz turned enough to lean his hip against the console, putting his hands over his face. "This is crazy. Ratchet, tell me I'm crazy."

"I could'a told you that a long time ago," Ratchet said, reaching over and pushing him off the console. "You gotta get over your fear, and better you do it with your best friend under my care than...I dunno, acting out one of those Spec Ops stories."

Jazz swung his arm in a backhanded swat that grazed Ratchet's prongs. The medic chuckled.

"Just relax," Ratchet said. "You're in good hands. And just a pro-tip, but the joints in Prowl's armor? Really sensitive."

If his faceplate heat flushed any harder, Jazz was going to start steaming. He turned to follow Prowl, then paused.

"I owe you one," he said softly, not turning.

"Just yell if you need help," Ratchet said. "Or, y'know, a third partner to help get those hard to reach places."

"Go slag yourself," Jazz said, laughing despite himself, and followed after Prowl.

TBC...


End file.
